Juggernaut

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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

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u^eernaut

IRew 65, morels

THE SECRET GARDEN. By Frances Hodgson
Burnett, Author of "The Shuttle," etc. Illustrated by
Charles Robinson.

KAMANITA. By Karl GjELi.ERap.

A PORTENTOUS HISTORY. By Alfred

Tennyson.

HER HUSBAND'S COUNTRY. By Sybil

SrOTTISWOODE.

THE WHITE PEACOCK. By D. H. Lawrence.

MRS. DRUMMOND'S VOCATION. By Mark

Ryce.
THE MAGIC OF THE HILL. By Duncan

Schwann, Author of " The Book of a Bachelor," etc.

JOHN CHRISTOPHER IN PARIS. ByRoMAiN

ROLLAND.

LOVE LIKE THE SEA. r,y J. E. Patterson,

Author of " Tillers of the Soil," etc

LAURA. By Caroline Grosve.nor, Author ol "The
Bands of Orion," etc.

ESSENCE OF HONEYMOON. By H. Perry

Robinson, Author of " Of Disiinijuibhed Animals."

LONDON : WILLL\M HEINEMANN
21 Bedford Street, W.C.

0

Juggernaut

E. Ff Benson

Author of
" Account Rendered," " Sheaves," etc.

London

William Heinemann
191 1

7R60O3

Copyright, London, 191 1, by William Heinentann,

and Washington, U.S.A., by Doubleday, Page and Company

CHAPTER I

The rain had ceased, and for the last half-hour a patch
of yellow sunlight had been slowly travelling across the
floor of Margery's room towards the bed on which she
lay. It was a little difficult at first to see the plan of
her, for her attitude denoted the extreme of disordered
despair. A great mass of bro\^^l hair was tossed about
the pillow, which was strangely rumpled and creased,
and her face was somewhere buried in it below her hair.
One long black-stockinged leg, however, stretched out
at full length dowTi the bed, gave a clue to her general
geography ; the other was tucked up beneath her : one
hand, thrown above her head, grasped the brass rail of
the bed ; the position of the other was unconjecturable.
On the floor, by the side of the bed, lay a handkerchief,
pressed together into a little hard wet ball, having been
cast away when it was no longer of use in drying her
eyes, and from time to time the bed shook with a sob.
But the sobs were not very frequent now. She had cried
herself out, and lay still, spent and tired both physically
and emotionally. The actual cause of her tears, though
only half an hour old, had a little receded in prominence.
What chiefly filled her now was the sense of utter desola-
tion, the fact that she alone cared, and that nobody else
minded one atom. Child as she was, and trivial as might
be the reason of her tears, she had there sounded the
utmost depths of human woe : she had come upon the bed-
rock on which all real misery is founded — namely, the

2 JUGGERNAUT

sense of being alone in sorrow. And at the moment she
gave voice to it.

" No — nobody cares," she moaned to her damp and
crumpled pillow.

Up to the present moment her verdict upon the prob-
ably universal heartlessness of mankind was backed by
evidence that seemed overwhelming. Bellairs, her aunt's
maid, for instance, had come with a message from Mrs.
Morrison a quarter of an hour ago to the effect that she
was going out driving at once, and that Margery might
come if she was good, and, on seeing her state, all that
Bellairs had of consolation and encouragement was :
" Now, to think of being such a cry-baby over a nasty
little kitten, at your age, too, miss." And, in spite of
the knowledge that there was some mystery about
Bellairs' age, and that it was a subject on which inquirj^
was not courted, Margery had been too miserable to
think of any smart and stinging reply. It was evident,
however, from this that Bellairs did not care, while, as
for the matter of age, was every girl supposed to cease
to love kittens because she had just celebrated her six-
teenth birthday ? It was evident, also, that Aunt Aggie
did not care, since it was she who had ordered this
ruthless and cold-blooded murder, and could dress up
and go out for a drive immediately afterwards ; while, as
for Margery's cousin Olive, she never cared for anything
that had four legs, nor much for those (except herself)
that had two. Walter, finally, did not care, in the
first place because at present he did not know of the
tragedy. But, even if he had kno^^Tl, it was probable
he would not have cared, for he had gone out this morning
ferreting for rabbits, which he killed without the least
compunction, if he was so fortunate as to hit them. And
rabbits were nearly as nice as kittens.

Margery had finished her crying, and she sat up and

JUGGERNAUT 3

clawed her hair together in some sort of fashion, so that
it did not fall over her face, and turned her pillow over.
She was already a little ashamed of having cried so much,
though not in the least ashamed of the anguish of mind
which had caused her to do so. But she cried so very
easily and with such abandonment, just as she laughed
easily and uncontrollably. There were so many dreadful
things in the world, just as there were so many hugely
delightful and funn}' ones. But nothing seemed funny
or delightful just now ; the discovery that nobody cared
whether a kitten was drowned led on to the discovery
that nobody cared at all for an3'thing, and, in particular,
for her. This was depressing, and it seemed patently and
awfully true. In all those six years since her mother's
death, during which she had lived with Aunt Aggie, she
felt now that she had never been wanted ; nobody really
cared whether she was happy or not. And she had all a
child's passionate desire — in spite of the great tale of
sixteen years which stood to her account — for happiness,
though she added to that something more than a child's
desire that other things — especially animals — should be
happy too.

That brought her thoughts back to the subject of the
kitten again, but solitary meditation on that dreadful
incident was here interrupted, for she heard the sound
of steps, or rather jumps, coming up the uncarpeted oak
staircase to her room at the top of the house, and she
knew who alone in this orderly establishment came
upstairs like that. Then there came a sound exactly as
if somebody had fallen down, and she ran to the door.

" Oh, Walter, what's the matter ?" she cried.

A tall boy in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers lay
sprawling on the corner landing just below the final flight
of six stairs which led to her room.

" Oh, nothing !" he said. " I've only broken both

4 JUGGERNAUT

legs. I was coming up to see you. Lord ! I crossed
shins with the last step. It's ever so much harder than
I am."

Still sitting where he was, he gingerly pulled dovMi his
stocking and disclosed a brown strong leg, on which was
accurately marked the place where he had crossed shins
with the stairs. Instantly Marger>''s sj-mpathy went out
to him and his hurt.

" Oh, I am sorry," she said. " Come and bathe it,
and I'll tie it up for you."

" Rot !" said the wounded one. " It's all right."

" Oh, but you must. It will stick to your stocking,
and the dj^e will get in and poison ever\'thing. And I
know I've got some lint, because when I fell out of the
tree two days ago "

Walter laughed and limped up the remaining stairs.
" I don't want any of your lint," he said, sitting down
on the edge of Margerj^'s bed, and pulling up his stocking
again, " though thanks awfully. I say, Margery, what's
been the matter ? Bellairs told me you were lying on
3'our bed and crying. There's no sense in crj'ing, any-
how. What's up ?"

Margery picked up her sopping handkerchief and
checked one of the ground-swell sobs, so to speak, that
had succeeded to the storm of her crying.

" It's the kitten," she said. " Tapioca had three
kittens this morning, and — and Aunt Aggie ordered one
to be drowned."

" Oh, well, that leaves two," said Walter, confident on
the score of his arithmetic, and hopeful on that of
consolation.

" Then you don't care either," said Margery, " just
like all the rest of them. Why — why does that make
it any better ? WTiat had the kitten done that they
should drown it ?"

JUGGERNAUT 5

" It had been born," said Walter. " Or, rather, three
of them had been born ; it was partly the fault of the
others. Don't cry again."

" But you're all so cruel," said Margery, with tears and
temper again rising. " It was alive, and why hadn't it
the right to live ? And its eyes weren't even open yet.
It — it had never enjoyed itself. Why should Aunt Aggie
have killed it ? She wouldn't have liked it if somebody
had put her in a bucket and drowned her when she was
a baby. I wish somebody had."

" Then it's not very polite of you," said Walter. " I
should never have been bom at all if that had been done."

" Well, it was just as unpolite of Aunt Aggie to drown
the kitten," said Margery. " And it was such a beastly
morning to be drowned on."

Walter nursed his leg for a moment in silence ; he was
sorry that Margery was in trouble, but, on the other hand,
he felt that the fact that two kittens survived, if rightly
looked at, contained the germs of consolation. For himself
he did not particularly care what happened to Tapioca
or any of her progeny, but since Margery cared, since also
it was only fair that he should do his best to console a
pal in distress, he did not argue about cats in general
or put forward his own view — namely, that they were, on
the whole, to be regarded as nocturnal nuisances which
one tried to hit with pieces of soap or anything handy —
but set his brain to see the affair from Margery's point
of view, and from that rather abstruse and mysterious
position suggest anything within reason that could (since,
apparently, the little Tapioca was gone beyond recall)
reconcile his friend to her bereaved existence. He was
older by a couple of years than Margery, but, in spite of
occasional lapses into old age and cynicism incidental to
eighteen, essentially younger than she, not so subtle in
thought, and ruder and less complex in emotion.

6 JUGGERNAUT

" Well, as I said, there are two little Tapiocas left," he
repeated. " And — and I came an aw^ul cropper up those
stairs."

Margery became severel}' practical.

" I offered to bathe it and bandage it," she said, " and
you refused. So don't blame me afterwards. And it
isn't the point that there are two kittens left. There
might have been three if Aunt Aggie hadn't dro%\Tied
one."

" Did mother dro^^^l it herself ?" asked the boy.

" No ; catch her. She told that — that beast Bellairs
to tell Jim it was to be dro\Mied. So — so I began to
cry, and it was just before lunch, and I am so hungry
now."

" Then you don't know for certain whether it was
drowned ?" asked he.

" No, you silly. You didn't expect me to go and look
at them putting the little darling into a bucket of water.
And it hadn't ever seen an3^thing, not the sun, or moon,
or anything nice," she said, her voice going up into a
squeak of pity.

Walter got up.

" And you haven't had any lunch ?" he asked.

" No ; I couldn't eat when I was crying."

" Wait here, then," he said.

Margery's ej^es brightened. It seemed that Walter had
some plan, and the making of a plan by Walter was the
ahnost invariable prelude to cheerful occurrences. That
had been the case in the matter of the fireworks at the
White City, which she longed to see. She had, on the
score of a cold, been forbidden to go to them, but Walter
had managed it by the simple expedient of refusing to go
without her.

" Oh, you darling ! have you thought of anything ?"
she asked.

JUGGERNAUT 7

" Only of all the things you didn't think of," he said.
" I dare say it's too late. But I'll just go and see. No,
you don't come with me. You stop here. I haven't had
any lunch, either, so I'll get something to eat, anyhow."

" And about Tapioca's " began Margery.

" Oh, shut up ! I don't promise anything except food.
But I promise you that. And it's so hke you to cry
about the kitten before you know whether it is dro^\^led
or not."

Walter could not resist that parting sarcasm, which,
though wounding, was deeply rooted in truth. Margery
always gave up and abandoned herself to despair long
before there was the slightest necessity for doing so, just
as she always skimmed the cream, so to speak, off a joyful
occasion long before the occasion had arrived. Margery,
in fact, as he thought to himself, as he ran downstairs
again, had not got one ounce of ordinary sense, though
she had an imagination and power of fantastic invention
that made her an admirable comrade. Also — and this
to the boy's mind was immensely important — she loved
playing games, and though she hated being beaten, as
every proper-minded person should, no stress of anxiety,
no hopelessness of position, would make her cheat.
Once in a most ill-inspired moment he had accused her of
cheating at croquet, and she had turned to him with a
white face and a quivering lip. " Walter, how dare
you ?" she said, and he was left to continue the game
alone, if he felt inclined. It was very different with his
sister Olive ; when she was accused of cheating, she said :
" Well, it's only a game." The darks and changing lights
in Margery's mind were more easily understandable than
the chaos of soul revealed m those few simple words.
But, then, Olive was quite grown up— over twenty, in
fact— and it was no use in Walter's candid estimation
trying to account for the disabihties of the adult mind.

8 JUGGERNAUT

Indeed, the feminine mind in general was a puzzle to
him, but he added, as a limiting clause, the intention of
which was highly complimentary, that Margery was
much more like a boy. Mrs. Morrison thought so too,
and had been known to ask : " Where are the boys ?"
By which she meant Walter and Margery. But there
was no complimentary intention in her mind.

Walter had intended to finish his rabbit-shooting and
return home for lunch, but the sport had been too
exciting to leave, and, consequently, now, at three o'clock,
he was possessed of a hunger almost too keen to be kind.
But before making his inroad into the kitchen he trotted
down the road to the stables, where it was probable the
execution of the superfluous kitten would have taken
place, on the chance that the sentence had not yet been
carried out. While there was a chance of that, every
second was important, and food — though that was im-
portant, too — must take a second place. It was absurd
of Margery to make a fuss, and cry herself into knots like
that ; but in his young life he had already learned that,
speaking generally, it was better to take people as you
found them, instead of attempting, probably without
result, to argue them into becoming something different.
Margery felt desolated with regard to the kitten's death,
and it was the clear duty of a friend to avert that event
if by any chance it had not yet taken place, and not waste
time in trying to persuade her of the over-violence of
her emotions. So, in a breathing heat, he came to the
stable-yard.

It was empty, dozing in the hot afternoon sun ; pigeons
patrolled on the slanting red-tiled roofs ; the old stable-
dog was basking in the sun, and, too content to move,
gave but a thump or two of his tail on the flags as welcome
to Walter ; and from inside came only the whistle of
some stableman. And even as Walter came up to the

JUGGERNAUT 9

door, Jim, the groom, came out, with a bucket in one
hand and a very small and faintly mewing thing in the
other ; while at his heels followed Tapioca, uneasy and
querulous.

" Oh, good-morning, Jim," said Walter. " I'm just in
time, it seems. You were going to drown that kitten,
weren't you ?"

" Yes, sir. Seems a pity, too, as they're all well-bred.
But Mrs. Morrison sent orders "

" I know. Well, it's a mistake. Give it back to the
old cat. You needn't say anything at all about it, and
probably nobody will know ; but if anything is said, say
it was my orders, will you ?"

" Yes, sir."

" You don't know anyone who will want a cat when it's
old enough to leave its mother, do you ? Well, it doesn't
matter. Just give it back to Tapioca, and let things
slide."

Walter went whistling back to the house, rather glad
to have done something for that very small and bhnd
bundle of fur, but much more glad to have done some-
thing for Margery. But how helpless girls were ! They
sat down and cried instead of making sure that there was
nothing to be done. True, it was easier for him to
countermand his mother's orders than for Margery ; but
she might have ascertained whether there was anything
to cry about before she proceeded to cry. But that
course would have been rational, and so Margery did not
pursue it.

Walter made a hurried inroad into the kitchen, and
after a short interview with a slightly dignified scullery-
maid, obtained such things as would ward off starvation
until tea-time, and thus, heavy laden, went up to Mar-
gery's room again, where he received the sort of welcome
which might duly be accorded to one who has averted

10 JUGGERNAUT

by some swift stroke of diplomacy massacre of the most
portentous kind.

" Oh, you are a darhng, and you are clever," she said.
" And just to think of my lying howling here instead of
going to make sure ! Do you think Aunt Aggie will find
out ? Walter, I never tasted such delicious potted meat !
What shall we do afterwards ? I'll do absolutely anything
you wish."

A gleam of mischief sparkled in the boy's eyes.

" Right oh ! I shall go ferreting again, then, and you
shall carry the rabbits I shoot."

Margery gave a great gulp.

" All right," she said. " I promised I would."

Walter laughed.

" You needn't, really," he said. " I only said that to
test you. You're not a bad chap, Margery. I believe
you would have come."

" Of course I should, though it would have been per-
fectly beastly of you to make me. Are you sure you don't
want me to ? Because I did promise."

" Quite sure. I'll toss you for that piece of cake that's
over."

" No, I don't want it," said Margery. " Oh, do eat
it quickly, and let's go out. I've been in all the morning.
Let's go to the stables first and congratulate Tapioca,
and then — what next ?"

" Oh, nothing ; let's wander round and see what
happens. Something is sure to. You'll fall into the
lake or tear your frock."

" And you may laugh at me as much as you like, if I
do," said Margery warmly, " because you've been such a
perfect angel about the kitten. Let's take our croquet-
mallets and lawn-tennis things and golf-balls, in case we
want them."

The two accordingly strolled down again to the stables

JUGGERNAUT H

that lay behind a belt of trees some three hundred yards
from the house. June and July had been very rainless,
and now in early September the short sheep-cropped grass
of the park, and the ranker growth of the shorn hayfields,
was yellow and faded, like a green-baize carpet from
which sunshine had sucked the colour. The park where
lay the nine holes of the little links, stretched upwards
from the white Portland-stone house, in gentle undula-
tions, and a fine growth of beeches bounded the open
grass. To the left rose the knoll where lay the rabbit-
warren which had detained Walter that morning, while
on the other side of the house was the flower-garden,
towards which they wandered when the visit of con-
gratulation to Tapioca was over. A cedar-tree, magnifi-
cent in growth, stood in the middle of the lawn, dividing
it into two, the extremity of its branches on the one side
reaching close to the house itself, and on the other ex-
tending to the broad terrace walk that bounded the
lawn. To the left of this giant vegetable a complicated
network of flower-beds had for its centre a stone vase and
pillar, while to the right the tennis and croquet lawn
divided between them a stretch of admirable turf. From
the far end of the terrace a httle flight of steps led down
to another undulating lawn, with a fountain and basin
of goldfish, on the edge of which a vulgar crowd of
sparrows chirruped and chattered all day, much like the
folk on the beach of some second-rate watering-place,
and from there a path led under an avenue of elms to the
brick-walled vegetable-garden a couple of hundred yards
away. At the bottom of that in a hollow of Surrey
downs, lay the village of Ballards, nestling unseen in the
elms of its gardens, while beyond the hills climbed
upwards again to the sky-line in russet of the ripening
harvest.

The sun was very hot, and the moisture of the rain that

12 JUGGERNAUT

had fallen so copiously in the morning, making it a bad
day to be drowned on, rendered exercise or even the
agitated standing about on the croquet-lawTi a less ex-
cellent way of passing the afternoon than sitting down
and waiting for tea and subsequent coolness ; and the
two established themselves in long chairs underneath the
thick fans of the cedar branches. Something of the
trouble of the morning, though that had ended in Walter's
triumphant coup de chat, still lingered about Margery,
and reflected itself in a certain sombreness of expression
both in conversation and face. Trouble still brooded in
those big grey eyes, and in the curves of her mouth —
features which even her aunt, who habitually took the
gloomiest possible view of Margery's future, was forced
to admit held promise. But, clearly, fulfilment either of
promise or of disappointment was in the future yet for
Margery. Her length of limb might promise superb
womanhood, or, on the other hand, might portend only
lanky maturity. Yet there was something about her —
something vivid, something fruit-bearing — that seemed
to put the latter possibility into the very remotest corner
of probability. Girlish and immature as she was, her
immaturity promised not withering, but ripeness. And
though possibly she might wither into something quite
dry and sapless, it was far more possible that she would
mature into a beautiful and tender being. But all that
lay within herself ; a distinct personality was certainly
there, one likely to ripen or wither on its own lines, no
parasitic thing that flourished or decayed, according to the
health of that on which it was grafted.

Walter had abandoned his chair as insufficient for his
long limbs, and lay on the fragrant cedar-needled ground
beside her. Though he was two years her senior, the
immaturity of his face was far more marked, and the
tall, handsome boy might — if this was a matter of a

JUGGERNAUT 13

wager — far more easily grow into a merely pretty spoiled
man, than might she grow into an ineffective woman.
Probably in little things he would get his way, chiefly
because he looked so pleasant and attractive, and in a
minor fashion, as in the matter of the drowning of the
kitten, because he could always be trusted to attend to
details. But Margery, with her big grey eyes and quick,
responsive mouth, held more of promise than he with the
crisply curling hair, the short, straight nose, and the
boyish, indeterminate chin. At present, in the ordinary
holiday pursuits of their summer days, there was no
question as to who ordained the manner of passing the
hours, for all Margery's eager soul was set on the instant
accomplishment of Walter's wishes. But when, as now,
they sat beneath the layered shade of the cedar, waiting
for the coolness of the evening to make possible more
active pursuits, it was the girl who was the stronger, her
mind that led his, even though she seemed to depend on
him. For she had come to the age, earlier reached
according to the measure of years by girls than boys,
when the enchanted mists of childhood and early years
are beginning to be rolled away under the rays of the sun
of life, and the undiscovered country, its hills and valleys,
or its quiet, pleasant plains, show their lines and contours.
Margery peered through the mists now, unconsciously
self-conscious, revealing herself to him.

" Oh, Walter, and it's September already," she said,
rather dolefully, " and there's only a fortnight left before
you go abroad. I don't know what I shall do when you
go. There'll be nobody to play with."

" Well, there wasn't anybody to play with when I went
back every half to Eton," said he.

" I know ; but it's different now that you are going to
Germany. I wish you needn't. And it seems to be a
sort of milestone your leaving Eton, and going away to

14 JUGGERNAUT

learn languages. And when you've learned them you'll
go into the Diplomatic Service and live abroad again.
Didn't you hate leaving school ?"

" Yes ; of course, it was the end of an awfully nice
time. But, after all, one has to get older and get on,
and do things."

" Yes, you lucky animal ! You are a boy, you see ;
girls haven't got to do things. They are stuck in rooms
and told to keep still, until some man comes and takes
them away. There's nothing that I wouldn't give to be
a boy, except— except, perhaps, ceasing to be a girl.
What a pity one can't be both !"

" Oh, then there is some point in being a girl, is there ?"
asked he. " You settled there was none the other day."

" Because I felt like that. Now I feel differently. I
want to be a girl, and yet be able to go ahead like boys.
You see, girls when they grow up look after men, and
are wanted to cheer them up and make them cosy and
happy. It must be tremendous fun being wanted like
that. That's where we score. We are wanted for what
we are, but boys and men are only wanted for what they
do ; they cut down trees and drive engines, and make
beer, and build houses. Then they aren't happy till we
come and live in them."

" What awfully rum notions you get hold of !" said
Walter placidly. His omti power of abstract thought or
conversation was practically non-existent ; when Mar-
gery, as occasionally happened, launched into these con-
fusing topics, he usually contented himself with small
comments in the style of the Greek chorus, till the fit of
philosophy was over.

" I don't see why it's rum to think about what goes on
in the world, and what is going to happen to one," said
she. " It's rather interesting. Besides, if you think very
hard about a thing, and make up your mind what is going

JUGGERNAUT 15

to happen — quite make it up, I mean — it usually does
happen."

" An instance being," said he, " that you quite made
up your mind that the little Tapioca was going to be
drowned, and wept floods and floods, and then it wasn't."

Margery laughed.

" I can pull your hair quite easily," she said, " and you
would have to get up in order to slap me. Oh, and
another thing, Walter. I'm not going to cry any more,
ever. It's — it's rather feeble, you know. And I'm
sixteen."

" I told you it was feeble long ago," he said.

" I know you did. But it's a different affair to find
out a thing for yourself, from having it told you. For
instance, Aunt Aggie told me that girls didn't climb trees.
I haven't found that out for m^^self yet."

" They fall out of them, too," said Walter, feeling him-
self more equal to this level of conversation.

" They very often don't, though. I think grown-up
people sometimes forget what it feels like not to be grown
up. That's where we score, because you and I can tell,
quite easily, what it feels like to be grown up."

" Oh, are you quite sure of that ?" asked he.

" Yes, of course ; you don't want to play any more,
and you go to the office instead if you are a man, and go
for a drive if you are a woman."

Walter considered this.

" I'm not absolutely sure you're right," he said. " It
may be that ^ou want to play as much as ever, only
somehow you can't."

" That would be awful," said Margery. " Poor things,
if that's what is the matter with them, I am sorry."

Walter sat up and picked the brown little cedar-
needles out of his stockings.

" They get along pretty well all the same," he said.

i6 JUGGERNAUT

" I've been some two more years growing up than you
have, you see, and I assure you it isn't a bit bad."

" Oh, nonsense !" said Margery, speaking what to her
was an intuitive conviction. " You haven't begun grow-
ing up at all. You're exactly the same as you always
have been, and a darling at that. So don't grow up
yet, Walter. Let's play a little more first. Indeed, we
might as well have a game of tennis at once before tea.
You shall give me fifteen, and I shall give you the most
awful beating. I'll pull you up."

Margery extended her two small brown hands to his
two large ones, and, leaning back, raised him to his feet,
and they stood there a moment, all four hands clasped,
he looking down smiling at her. And at that moment
for the first time he felt some impulse of particular
tenderness towards her, different a little from the frank
comradeship that had existed hitherto between them.

" Oh, you queer little animal !" was all he said, but
somehow the new feeling found expression in those very
unsentimental words.

Walter came honestly, as the phrase is, by his stature
and good looks, for his mother, still a year or two only
over forty, was of that big superb order of beauty, so
seldom seen outside the Anglo-Saxon races, which, mag-
nificent though it is from a purely spectacular stand-
point, too often seems, like a nonsense riddle, to mean
nothing whatever. Processes of thought, no doubt, went
on during her waking hours in her mind, since a mind in
which no thought goes on is the mind of the idiot, and
she was not an idiot ; but the thoughts that passed through
her brain were numerically few, and always made their
way, so to speak, down the hard, well-worn channels
which they had dug there. It was doubtful whether she
was capable of grasping any new idea ; it was quite

JUGGERNAUT 17

certain that she was incapable of initiating one. Nor
could she put an old idea into a new setting, or regard it
from a different point of view, or let it flow down some
channel of her brain other than the one to which it had
been accustomed. Her mind would, in a word, have
made a magnificent model for any psychological artist
who wanted to depict the spirit and essence of conven-
tionality. Whatever she did, she did because it was the
Thing, and wasted no more thought about it, nor con-
sidered whether the Thing in any particular instance
ministered either to her pleasure or her profit. Other-
wise (apart, that is, from her uncompromising and
unswerving loyality to the Thing) she was almost emotion-
less. But then the Thing was an exacting deity demand-
ing practically incessant worship from its devotee ; from
prime to compline, from getting up in the morning to
going to bed at night, the hours had to be passed in
service of the Thing. And even when Mrs. Morrison was
safe in bed of a night she did a httle deep-breathing, for
just now that was the Thing, too.

The case of these conventionalists, even when they are
not of the first water, as Mrs. Morrison was, is a very
curious one. In youth (or so the observer would have
thought) life and love must have come knocking at their
doors, but the touch of such things, as make the majority
of mankind human, seem but to turn the conventionalist
to wood. There are curious lakes to be read about in
books of physical geography which have the property
of petrifying whatever is put in their unnatural waters,
instead of softening it, and perhaps a correspondingly
barren process is the effect which life has on such natures
as these. Experience, whether of sorrow or happiness,
seems not to have softened them ; it has only made them
more impenetrable. They would seem to be freaks and
exceptions from all known psychic laws ; they are like

i8 JUGGERNAUT

the iron " that did swim." For though iron, they cer-
tainly manage, in the stock phrase, to swim very decently.
It is indeed rare that they have what a warmer-hearted
section of the race would call friends, but they get along
very well with their acquaintances, and live a most
decent and well-ordered life. And though it is diiBcult
to imagine them as ever having been really young, it is
quite easy to imagine the latter part of their lives. They
get a httle woodener every day, and then, having long ago
parted with all that can be called life, it may be con-
jectured and hoped that they die without the sHghtest
struggle or difficulty. Foi it would be a pathetic thing
if, having practised being dead so long, the moment of
death seemed to them upsetting or unfamiHar.

Mrs. Morrison had married verj' young, and married
very well, her unfortunate husband having been a man
of the most placid and amiable disposition, of large
fortune, honestly and even laudably acquired by his
father by the process of brewing immense quantities of
perfectly sound beer. His wife had set about her duties
at once, and given him two children. She then, it may
be supposed, proceeded to stupify him to death, buried
him, and refrained from marrying again, for the sake,
she said, of her children, whatever that might mean.
Without any desire, however, to be uncharitable, it may
be conjectured that it also suited her own sake very well
to remain unmarried, since she had complete control and
expenditure of her late husband's fortune, up till the
time that Walter should come of age, if she remained
single, whereas the control of it passed into the hands
of other trustees and was alienated from her for ever
should she consent to stupify some other man. It must be
added, in justice to her, that she was by no means in-
ordinately fond of mone}^ but, on the other hand, she
was certainly not inordinately fond of anything else.

JUGGERNAUT 19

Thus, though it was not directly because the control of
this fortune would pass from her that she did not marry
again, it certainly entered her consciousness that she was
very comfortable as she was. She always went to church
on the anniversary of her husband's death, even though it
occurred next door to Sunday, on which day she always
went to church twice, and never dined out, even though
the most attractive table had a place ready to be laid for
her. On this point, indeed, she went beyond what any
known code of convention indicated, for she was of that
most superior order of conventionalists who can follow
out and develop already existing conventions, until they
almost become inventions of their own.

Olive, her only daughter, at the age of twenty was
exactly the sort of girl who might have been reconstructed
by some German savant who had never seen her, but
had beeni furnished with a report on her father, her
mother, and her education. As might have been ex-
pected, she knew French and German very fairly well,
and could converse in either tongue with perfect accuracy
(though she had no more to say in them than she had in
English), played the piano decently, for the German
governess who had succeeded the French governess — they
had both stopped for three years, and were then dismissed,
with excellent characters — was competent to instruct her ;
she rode a bicycle, since at one time everybody rode
bicycles, knew a good deal about flowers, because for a
year or two it had been fashionable to spend the morning
with leather gloves and a hoe in the garden, and was now
learning to play golf under the supervision of a neigh-
bouring professional, who gave her lessons twice a week,
with her mother as chaperone, sitting on the bank of some
adjoining bunker. In person she was tall and hand-
some, herein taking after her mother, and in character
(originally anyhow) amiable and tremendously dull like

20 JUGGERNAUT

her father. Her dullness indeed was less a lack of such
qualities as interest, curiosity, and the rapture of living,
than a positive quality in itself, so remarkably solid and
sterling was it. Nothing, in fact, which was merely an
absence of other things, could account for so positive a
habit of mind. But in the last five or six years her original
amiability had undergone a slight change. She was
gradually becoming querulous, a little jealous and exact-
ing. That may have been a natural development of her
nature, the ripening of seeds that were already there, but
it was more probably a sort of fermenting or rotting
process going on in her mmd. For her mind was of quite
decent intelligence ; she had learned languages, music, the
use of the bicycle with decent ease, and these things were
like fruits kept in a dark room ; they were never used or
eaten. Probably they were going a " little bad," and
this affected her nerves deleteriously.

In this short inventory of Olive's mind, it may have
been noticed that there were certain objects there which,
so to speak, were labelled " fashionable," which accounted
for their presence. That brings us to Mrs. Morrison's one
and only weakness. Her conventionality (if we may
regard it as a plant) was crossed with a vague sort of
ambition. She wanted — though she did not know how
to set about it — to shine in a social wa}^ and though her
innate conventionality was quite enough to make her
always do the Thing, from time to time she cast glances
at the gallerj^ as embodied in such papers as give little
personal paragraphs about those in whom their readers
are supposed to be interested. She had the tastes, if not
the aptitude, of a climber, but it is to be feared that,
properly considered, the pinnacle up which she had for
so many years been planting her feet was less of a pinnacle
than a treadmill. She seemed to be climbing ; her feet
were always being lifted, as it were, to a higher place,

JUGGERNAUT 21

yet she never got any higher. But here her entire lack
of imagination stood her in good stead, and she did not
worry about this inexpHcable phenomenon. She went
on year after year giving her rather dreary parties, and
being regularly asked out to others, and possibly it never
occurred to her that nothing particular was happening.
She was Curzon Street in London, and county (or there-
abouts) in the country. That seemed to her quite satis-
factory ; the county alwaj^s came to her ball at Christ-
mas, and though she had no ballroom in town, she gave
half a dozen dinner parties during the season, for which
she had not the slightest difficulty in furnishing her table
with guests, although they tended to leave rather punc-
tually at eleven. Similarly, also, she seldom failed to
get a couple of men to come with her and Olive to their
box at the opera when it was her night. Thus, since she
wanted little that was on a higher or indeed a lower
plane than such things as these, she had a very pleasant
and comfortable time ; it was exactly as pleasant (as is
true in the case of most of us) as she was capable of
imagining, and as comfortable as any reasonable amount
of cash and good health could make it.

It is always rather wonderful, if we consider the
matter, how most people can find sufficient topics to
make conversation animated during the greater part of
the day, and that they do so is a testimonial to the auto-
matic ingenuity of the human mind. But in the case
of people like Mrs. Morrison, whose mental equipment is
so very slight and so little varied, the thing becomes a
portent. It is a fact, however, that she was not only
seldom at a loss for matters to speak of, but was perfectly
capable even of sustained soliloqu3^ Such soliloquies, it
is true, might be of the nature of " nmning on," but
there was no doubt that on she ran. To-day, as she and
Olive returned from their drive, her remarks were more

22 JUGGERNAUT

full of new matter than usual, for they had been to call
on some residents newly arrived in the neighbourhood,
and as they found them at home there was a good deal
to say. Mrs. Morrison drove, it may be mentioned, in a
very large landau, with a pair of fat middle-aged horses to
pull her, a stout coachman to control their destinies, and
an impassive angular footman to take the air, and, if
necessary, open gates.

" A very pleasant addition to our neighbours, Olive,"
said Mrs. Morrison, " and evidently very refined, cultured
people. Mrs. Leveson looks very young to be the mother
of that man, who I am sure must be well over thirty.
And yet one cannot tell ; he may look older than his age,
or, on the other hand, she may have married very young.
I am sure I have seen people look very much surprised
to know that I was the mother of you and Walter, until
I told them that I was married out of the schoolroom,
one may say. And Mrs. Leveson is an honourable ;
there was a letter for her on the hall table, which I could
not help seeing the address of when I laid my parasol
down. Remind me to look her up in Debrett when we
get home. I always put my parasol down in the hall
when I pay a call ; it is sometimes very awkward to know
where to put it if you carry it into the drawing-room with
you. Mr. Leveson, I gather, is a great student, though
I could not ascertain what it was he studied. He said
he always worked in the morning, and seldom got out
before lunch, when I told him I always made a point of
having a little walk before lunch, but I did not like to
ask him what it was he worked at the first time of meet-
ing him. It would have sounded inquisitive, and there
is nothing I disHke more than the appearance of being
inquisitive. Perhaps it is too much study that makes
him look older than his years. People very often age
quickly if they use their brains too much."

JUGGERNAUT 23

" We don't know yet whether he does look older than he
is," remarked OHve, " as we do not know how old he is."

" No, dear ; I was saying that it was either that, or
that his mother must have married very young, as I did.
I should not wonder if she married very young, for she
clearly must have been a pretty girl, and probably bright
and attractive. She has evidently travelled a good deal,
too, and said they were going out to Egypt again in
December. That shows they have been there before.
She would not say ' again ' if this was their first visit.
I dare say they have been several times. Perhaps her
son's work is connected with Egypt — Egyptologists are
they not who study hieroglyphics and the dynasties ?
Your poor father had a scarab, I remember, which he
was very proud of, but he lost it in the underground.
He often wondered who found it, if it was ever found. .
I noticed Mrs. Leveson called her son Arnold. That is
not a very common name. I remember a footman came
to us who was called Arnold, but I said he must be James
as usual. It is very hard to get good footmen now."

" It is easy to get bad ones," said Olive. " At least,
Walter says his clothes are never properly brushed."

Mrs. Morrison had nothing to say on the subject of
brushing clothes, and for half a mile or so the slow, heavy
trot of the fat horses was unbroken by the sound of human
voices. Then it occurred to Mrs. Morrison that it was
Walter who said his clothes were never properly brushed,
and she started off on him and the kindred subjects
which he suggested.

" I am surprised Walter did not come in for lunch,"
she said, " though I do not the least anticipate that any
accident has happened. I should be most uncomfortable
if such a thought really occurred to me. No doubt he
had good sport, and forgot to look at his watch. He is
very careless about time, so I gave no orders about things

24 JUGGERNAUT

being kept hot for him. If people are not punctual they
must not expect to be waited for, or that fresh trouble
should be given to the servants. I very much dishke
giving extra trouble to the servants, or doing anything
which they could think out of the common. I am sure
they gossip so much, and wonder why one does this or
that, if it is not one's regular practice. That is why I
refused Mrs. Levenson's offer to give us tea. It had but
just struck four, and I felt sure their regular tea-time could
not be four, unless they are the kind of people who dine
at seven, which I did not think very likely. People used
to dine at seven when your father and I first married, but
even then it was going out, and anything like a dinner-
party was at a quarter to eight at the earliest."

" How very odd that must have been," said Olive.
' The words sounded slightly iced, but they were not meant
to be of any discouraging temperature. It was merely
that she had nothing whatever to say on the subject of
dining at a quarter to eight. It, hke many other things,
did not in the least interest her.

The mention of dinner roused a very stout grey pug that
reclined on a cushion on the opposite seat of the carriage,
and she sat up and gave three short asthmatic barks.

" She caught the word dinner," said Mrs. Morrison.
" It is wonderful how sharp she is. But I think I must
get rid of Flo. I notice that nobody has ordinary pugs
now. If you have a pug, it must be a Japanese pug."

" Flo would not be very happy in a new home," said
Ohve.

" She shall not have a new home," said Mrs. Morrison.
" She is very old, and very rheumatic. It is no kindness
to let dogs live to be miserable."

Some slight hint of compassion came over Olive's face
at this.

" She is hardly old enough to kill yet, is she ?" she

JUGGERNAUT 25

asked, speaking of her as if she was a fowl or a calf.
" And Margery would make such a dreadful fuss."

" Margery's making a fuss is no reason for letting a
dog live in misery," said Mrs. Morrison. " And Flo
breathes so that I often think she will have an apopletic
fit and pass off in her sleep. But there is no reason why I
should not see about getting a Japanese pug, even if Flo
is not destroyed. And if it would make her jealous to
see another dog taking her place about the house or
when I go out driving, she can go to the stable, and be
comfortable enough there. Bellairs tells me that she is
dropping her hair so that it often takes her a half-hour
to get her cushion fit to be seen again to come out."

Flo, after her wheezy acknowledgments of the word
" dinner," had sunk back on her cushion again, and her
snores beat a syncopated rhythm to the clip-clop of the
slow-trotting horses.

" Or I would give Flo to Margery," said Mrs. Morrison,
after a pause. " She could live in the schoolroom then,
and be left with the caretaker here when we go up to
town. Margery would hke Flo, I am sure. It will make
up to her for the kitten I ordered to be drowned this
morning. Margery was ridiculous about it, and ate no
lunch, but who ever heard of keeping three kittens ?
One is always drowned. I dare say Margery had lunch
with Walter when he came in from rabbit-ferreting."

An unbiassed bystander taking intelligent note of the
various schemes for Flo's future might be led to think
from them that Mrs. Morrison was innately kind of
heart, since these plans were, on the whole, constructed
in a crescendo of probable fehcity for Flo. The destiTic-
tion of Flo, that is to say, was succeeded by a plan for
letting her live at the stables, and the stables were
supplanted by the schoolroom, while the schoolroom plan
appeared to be based on an impulse of thoughtfulness

26 JUGGERNAUT

for Margery. Such a series of suppositions would appear
to be logical enough, but though it held water logically,
it would be in reahty utterly fallacious if taken to repre-
sent the various stages of thought which passed through
Mrs. Morrison's mind. Flo's future, as a matter of fact,
was entirely without interest to her, and Mrs. Morrison
only developed her plan of increasing kindness on the
lines of least resistance. It was quite certain that Margery
would, as Olive had said, make a fuss if Flo was destroyed,
and Mrs. Morrison would always prefer (though not very
vividly) to have no fuss rather than have one, provided
only that the result with regard to her general wishes
was the same as she had Intended. Here her intention
was to be rid of Flo, in order to get the Japanese pug
which was the latest " note " in dogs, and Flo at the
stable was as good as Flo in the ground. But Flo in the
schoolroom would be as good as Flo in the stables, and
since Mrs. Morrison was not unkind, but only not kind,
she had no objection to giving to Margery what she did
not want herself. And then a charming thought occurred
to her.

" It was Margery's birthday last week," she said, " and
she was sixteen, though I am sure she behaves hke a
child still. I will give her Flo as a birthday present, only
Margery must not take her up to town. Flo cost me
seven pounds, I remember, and I received a pedigree
with her. I dare say Bellairs can find it."

Then having found a scheme of kindness which, so far
from costing her anything, relieved her of a burden, she
became quite warm-hearted over it.

" That will please Margery very much," she said,
" and it will certainly console her for that kitten. She
is such a child, and I want to make her childhood happy.
I will give her Flo's cushion, toa, though of course Bellairs
cannot be expected to brush it. Bellairs shall make a new

JUGGERNAUT 27

cushion for my Japanese pug, though I am sure that
Flo's cushion would do well enough. But I should hke
to give Margery that cushion, and Flo also is used to it.
She might not sleep so well on another."

Again the fat horses trotted along in silence ; Mrs.
Morrison was intent on examining her plan to see if it
impHed anything that could possibly be inconvenient to
herself, and OHve had nothing to say on the subject.
The sunshine of this September afternoon disposed toward
benevolence, and Mrs. Morrison, since she could see no
possible objection to what she had already planned, was
spurred on to a fresh kindness.

" I will give Margery Flo's brush and comb also," she
said, " and get a new one for my Japanese pug. Dogs
do not hke things that have been used by other dogs. Of
course, Margery must brush Flo every day ; she would
be miserable without it, and Bellairs cannot be expected
to look after two dogs. One must consider the servants."

The trot of the fat horses subsided into a walk, and
they came to a standstill at the gate of the lodge. The
footman got down and rang the bell, for Mrs. Morrison
kept all the lodge gates locked, and the bell tinkled
drowsily into silence, without answer. Though the sun
was only pleasantly warm while the carriage was in
motion, it was hot while standing still, and before the
bell was answered a motor had passed, raising a cloud of
dust, and Flo again sat up and coughed wheezily.

" I am not sure that Flo had not better be destroyed
before the winter comes on," said Mrs. Morrison. " She
suffered very much from bronchitis last winter. And
why do they not answer the bell ? I have often thought
that Mrs. Blundell is past her work, and her husband is
usually laid up, so that I do not see what they do for us.
Ring again, Alfred."

Alfred rang. There was another long pause.

28 JUGGERNAUT

" It is ridiculous if one cannot get into one's own. lodge
gates," said Mrs. Morrison. " I am sure the bell at
Mrs. Leveson's was answered quick enough. And the
sun is grilling. Ah, there is somebody. Stop when we
get through, Parkins," she said to the coachman.

A rather slovenly old woman curtsied as the carriage
passed, and came up to it again as it stopped.

" We rang twice !' said Mrs. Morrison.

" I beg pardon, ma'am, but which Blundell being ill
again " began the old lady.

" Tell Blundell I wish to see him when he is better,"
said Mrs. Morrison. " Drive on, Parkins."

" One may carry kindness too far," said Mrs. Morrison.
" It is years since Blundell was worth his wages. I can-
not see why one should pay for work that is not properly
done. Pauperisation, is it not called, hke giving to
beggars in the street ? I remember reading an article
about it, which put it all most clearly."

Olive considered this.

" I don't know if you mean pensions or pauperisation,
mother," she said. " I think the article you read was
about pensions."

" I have read several articles lately," said her mother.

This was unanswerable, for since she had read several
it was quite impossible to prove that one might not
have been about pensions and another about pauperisa-
tion ; and the horses again dropped into a walk as the
carriage began to mount the scarcely perceptible incline
that led through the fields at the garden-side of the house.
Beyond them lay the long flower-bed below the terrace,
a conflagration of the vivid hues of autumnal flowers, and
behind the white house, screened by the huge sombre
mass of the great cedar, cast its shadow far out over the
garden. The sun was ' already low above the hills to
the west, the little wisps of feathery cloud that floated

JUGGERNAUT 29

there were tinged with pink, and the blue of day was
beginning to fade into the aqueous green of sunset. To
Mrs. Morrison these signs of the approach of evening
were but a reminder that it must be late, and she looked
at the little gold watch set in a bracelet on her smooth
plump wrist.

" I declare it is nearly six," she said, " and we should
almost have done better to have had tea with Mrs.
Leveson. The horses are getting slower every day, and
I have often thought they are almost past work, though
the delay at the lodge, of course, detained us. I am not
sure that I should not do better to part \\dth them, and
get a motor this autumn. Parkins would have to go,
too ; I could not trust him at his age to learn to drive.
I am sure I should never be comfortable sitting behind
him for fear something might happen, and he should
lose his head. I think we will put off dinner till a quarter
past eight, Olive. It will be six o'clock before we get tea.
Probably Walter and Margery will have had tea. We
must have a fresh teapot up, if it has been standing long.
But perhaps they will have waited tea for us. We shall
soon know."

This agitating suspense was not of long duration, for it
appeared that Walter and Margery, so far from having
had tea, were not ready for it yet, for they were getting
near the end of a set of tennis of the most hideously
critical sort. Tea had been laid under the cedar, and
Mrs. Morrison, while waiting for the urn to be brought
out, strolled up to the court, and, standing firmly within
the base line during the progress of a rally, began to tell
Margery of the delightful birthday present she had
planned for her.

" It was your birthday last week, was it not, Mar-
gery ?" she began. " How very hot you look "

Walter returned the ball on the far side of his

30 JUGGERNAUT

mother, so that Margery could not really get a fair
shot at it.

" Oh, Aunt Aggie, please," she said breathlessly. " It's

five, four, and if I win the next two points Walter,

I think I could have got that. May I have a let ?"

Walter wanted to win nearly as much as his cousin.

" Oh, mother, do get away !" he said. " We've nearly
finished. Yes, of course, it's a let, Margery."

Mrs. Morrison slowly crossed the court.

" I had only come to tell Margery about a birthday
present I had planned for her," she said, " but as she
does not seem to care to hear about it, there is no necessity
for me to worry her with ii."

Margery made a little comic gesture of despair.

" Oh, it isn't that, Aunt Aggie," she said, brushing the
hair from her face ; " and it is too dear of you. But you
see it is so exciting. May I hear about it at tea ? We
shall have done in a minute if only I can win these two
points."

Mrs. Morrison had worked herself up to believe that
she was doing an immensely generous thing in giving
Margery not only her valuable dog, but its cushion and
brush and comb, and felt that her kindness was being
met with ingratitude. But she often told herself that
Margery had not got a grateful nature, and this was
but an instance the more of a trait she had so frequently
noticed and deplored. She herself, however, was not the
woman to go back upon a generous resolve because it was
not suitably responded to ; she only wondered, as she
went back to the tea-table under the cedar, whether, if
Bellairs washed Flo's brush and comb thoroughly, they
would not do for her new dog quite well. It would not
be right that Margery should get in the habit of expect-
ing a present like this every year. . . .

A wild howl from the tennis-court interrupted her

JUGGERNAUT 31

prudent reflections, and, observing Margery throwing
her racquet into the air, Mrs. Morrison concluded she had
won. It was strange how excited she got over a httle
thing hke a game. Olive remarked this too.

" I wish you would speak to Margery about scream-
ing," she observed. " If we all screamed when we were
pleased, it would be irnpossible to hear what anybody
said."

But Mrs. Morrison did not pay much attention to this,
for Margery's voice broke in :

" Oh, Walter, you darling ! I did play well, didn't
I ?" she cried. " You don't mind my winning, do you ?"

Walter had jumped the net and joined her, and Mrs.
Morrison saw Margery put her arm round his neck as
they strolled towards the tea-table together. She could
not hear his reply, but he said something, smiling into
her face, which was close to his.

" I think it is a good thing that Walter is going away
to Germany soon," continued Olive, in her colourless,
even voice. " He encourages Margery to be a romp."

And Mrs. Morrison, though for different reasons, found
herself thinking, too, that it was not a bad thing.

The evening air soon grew rather damp, and before
long Mrs. Morrison went into the house, to rest for a
little before dinner, as she made it her invariable habit
to do. But her resting was but a quiescence of the body ;
her mind during those periods of recuperation was as
active as ever, and she often read many pages of a novel
while she was repairing the exhausting effects of the day.
But this evening she took with her a volume, which she
hoped would prove at least as exciting as the story
which she was at present somewhat sluggishly reading,
and proceeded to find out in what manner Mrs. Leveson
was an honourable. And she became very much in-

32 JUGGERNAUT

terested, for the information was thoroughly sound and
satisfactory. She had married the only brother of Lord
Northwood (who was a bachelor with no fewer than
three addresses), and had issue Arnold John, bom 1877.
There was but little information about the present holder
of the title, but what little there was was satisfactory,
since he was seventy-one years of age, and Mrs. Morrison's
gaze went back to Arnold John again. She had been
well grounded in arithmetic when she was a girl, and it
required no effort on her part to see that he would be
thirty-two next birthday, which occurred in November.
" His mother should be looking out for a wife for him,"
she said to herself. " I shall see to it that Walter is
married before he is thirty-two. But some mothers have
a very low idea of their duty to their children."

She, at any rate, had not, and closed the book thought-
fully.

CHAPTER II

It was now six years since Margety, as has been men-
tioned, came to live, on her mother's death, with her
father's sister-in-law. He, Norman Morrison, had died
while she was still scarcely of an age to remember him,
and the very faint childish memories which she retained
of the tall man with a ringing, jovial laugh were not, it
may be mentioned, kept aHve or supplemented by fresh
information in her new home. For he had not been
what is called much of a comfort to his family, having run
through his fortune, which had been an adequate one,
with extreme celerit}^ ; and, while its dissolution was in
course of process, having married a lady who was in-
timately connected with the stage. That she was a girl,
in the French phrase, as good as bread, did not in the
eyes of his family make this step less of a disgrace ; and
his marriage had been the final cause of estrangement
between him and his brother. Leonard Morrison, good-
natured and amiable as he was, would not, probably, if
left to his o-wn judgment, have taken so extreme a view
of this step, but he had to reckon with the feelings of his
wife, concerning which there was no room for any kind
of doubt. For in Mrs. Morrison's view there were
certain things which no person with the slightest claim
to respectability could do, and in the forefront of these
was to marry an actress. She did not doubt, perhaps,
that it was possible, in the merciful dispensation of
Providence, that actresses could be saved, but that was

33 3

34 JUGGERNAUT

one of the things that Providence had to manage without
her aid. Of course, if an actress attained such eminence
that she became, so to speak, a pubhc institution, and
was asked to garden-parties, it was a totally different
matter ; but actresses of the ballet type — which was the
type with which Norman had alhed himself — were people
who had no existence that she was aware of. They
probably lived and breathed, and married and had chil-
dren— as was the case here ; but they belonged to that
underworld about which she preferred to be ignorant.
And the man who married one was sucked into the under-
world, too.

Leonard Morrison had died very soon after his brother
had committed this social suicide, and when, a few years
later, Norman also finished with the affairs of this transi-
tory life, it was no wonder that his wife, who was well
aware of her sister-in-law's feehngs on these subjects,
sooner than apply to her for aid, went back, like the gallant
little soul she was, to her profession, in order to win bread
for herself and her little Margery. But the struggle,
which she had fought gallantly and without failure, had
been a hard one. The years of her married hfe had aged
her, and instead of the success which her youth and
girhsh good looks and gaiety made so easy, she found it
difficult now to get engagements which enabled them to
live, even with the strictest economy, in moderate comfort.

But she had managed it so that Margery in those
fatherless years had never guessed that there was a
struggle at all, or that the beloved mummy had anything
whatever to worry about. Still less did she conjecture
that the Httle ornaments and trinkets which sometimes
mysteriously disappeared were not given away, as was
represented, to the little girls who had not got a mummy
of their own, but found their way to a dingy, unromantic
miscellaneous shop just round the comer.

JUGGERNAUT 35

Poor gallant little Jeannie Morrison had done far more
than to conceal from Margery the difficulties of living
even in such squalid sort of comfort as was possible ; she
had not only concealed, but she had constructed, so
that to Margery even now those five years seemed a sort
of fairy existence. The week of working days was always
a busy time for her mother, for the evenings were spent
in the theatre when she had an engagement, and the
mornings were often taken up with rehearsals ; but every
week brought its Sunday, with a walk in the Park if it
was fine, and enchanting stories about the Real State of
Things — how that the shining Serpentine was a lake
really belonging to Margery. It would pass into Mar-
gery's possession again when a certain mysterious per-
sonage called Ogibogi had burst (as all witches eventually
did) from her own spite and malice, and she would build
on the north shore of it a palace entirely composed of
agates (agate being the material of which a precious Httle
brooch, which had lately disappeared, was made). There
would be a theatre next the dining-room, so that
mummy could always dine at home, and not have to go
out of an evening when it was wet. The ducks and swans,
too, in the Serpentine all belonged to Margery ; it was
that fact which they acknowledged when they came near
to the shore where she was standing, and dived their
heads into the water. They were really bowing to
Margery, and acknowledging her as their mistress. But
they had to make their obeisance in this rather abstruse
fashion as long as Ogibogi was still exercising her malign
sway, otherwise she would kill them and eat them for
supper, beak and feathers and all. Or sometimes they
left London behind altogether of a Sunday, and went
into a dark tunnel called Undy Groun, which it needed a
Httle courage to face with equanimity, though Margery
knew that when they had finished with Undy Groun

36 JUGGERNAUT

they would come to a place called Richmond. There was
a hill there which had to be climbed, but at the top was
real fairyland — a great park with deer in it, and great
lakes, and thickets of rhododendrons which the fairies
painted every Saturday night in every hue of red and
mauve, so that Margery should admire their handiwork
on Sunday morning. They ate their lunch there under
the trees ; and the bread was manna, and the little bits of
meat the food of the gods, and the ginger-beer the milk
of Paradise. And in the evening they would return by
Undy Groun, or sometimes walk to Putney and take a
bus from there, and stop at some church and enter, and
hear the most beautiful music, and say prayers which,
though but dimly understood by the child, had the
fragrance of incense about them, and the sense of some
protective presence. And on Sunday evening she alwa37s
said her own private prayers to her mother, addressing
them, it is to be feared, more to her than to the orthodox
quarter. On weekdays the sumptuousness of such
prayers was denied Margerj^ for she had to be in bed
and asleep before her mother got home from the theatre,
and weekday prayers were a little dull and Hstless in
consequence. But on Sunday, after the two had been
to Richmond Park, and had in the evening sat in some
church, gorgeous with lights and resonant with song,
prayers were a different affair. " Make me a good child
to mummy," was the last petition, and mummy always
answered, " Make me a good mummy to my child.
Amen." And magic, sweet, white magic, hung about the
memory of those evenings still.

In those five years between the death of her father
and that of her mother Margery had never heard a harsh
word at home. She was quite as naughty as all high-
spirited children ought to be ; she had fits of temper ;
she once stole seven lumps of sugar ; she was disobedient,

JUGGERNAUT 37

tiresome, fractious. But she never provoked anger or
impatience in her mother ; the worst that ever happened
was that mummy was sorry. Once or twice, as when
she stole the sugar, mummy was so sorry that she could
not speak, and there were hours that Margery could not
remember now without a swelling of the throat and
imminent tears. Quietly and slowly she had guessed by
this time what those five years were to her mother, while
she herself was living in a fairyland ; and, more or less,
she knew now about them. But until her mother's
death, when she was ten, no hint of want or difficulty had
ever reached her ; she had led an existence exciting,
thrilling, full of delicious surprises, and radiant with
love, and, above all, instinct with compassion for all
living things that were ailing, unhappy, ugly ; for all these
were suffering, as the earlier childish tradition went, from
the evil influence of that dreadful Ogibogi, who assuredly
would some day burst with so loud a bang that the deer
in Richmond Park would stop grazing and their horns
would drop off. For a couple of years before that,
Margery had known in vague childish fashion that Ogi-
bogi was but an allegory, a sweet invention to account
for such things as were contrary and undesirable ; but,
after all, there was nothing better to be said about un-
toward events than that they were the malific workings
of Ogibogi, and the myth had held its own.

Then, one evening, as Margery was preparing to go to
bed, her mother had come in, looking very white.

" I had to leave the theatre, darling," she said, " be-
cause I did not feel very well. Mr. Deempster was very
kind ; he will keep me my place till the end of the week.
But I am so tired. Do I look strange, dear ?"

Margery was not alarmed at the moment, but at this
she looked up at her mother, and saw what she had not
seen before. That dear face looked tense, anxious,

38 JUGGERNAUT

troubled. And next moment her mother had swayed
and fallen. It was not Ogibogi now ; it was kind, swift
death, painless and soft, with hand of healing and com-
fort.

The day or two after that was still to Margery a con-
fused, unrememberable time. Other folk had come in
from the flats above and below, and she had been treated
kindly, with all the s}Tnpathy of the poor for the poor.
She had seen her mother once more, lying on her bed,
looking very young and contented. There were Uttle
bunches of flowers on the sheet that covered her, and a
decorous silence reigned. ^^Jid then quite suddenly she
understood : she had been told that her mother was dead ;
but for a day or two that meant nothing. Now, on this
morning, when they were going to take her away, she
comprehended. So she asked to say her prayers, and,
as so often before, she said, " Make me a good child to
mummy." And then came the passion of weeping.

A stiff, tall lady arrived either on this day or the next,
and Margery was told to be a good girl and come away
to her new home, and see her cousins. Mummy had
already gone, and there was nothing here to wait for, and
she went quite quietly. They drove at first through
familiar streets, and then through streets that were
emptier and rather desolate, and the carriage drew up
in a street that could hardly be called a street at all, so
quiet and dismal was it. Then a very big front door was
thrown open, and she followed the tall, stiff lady into an
immense hall, where stood two immense motionless men
with curious-coloured waistcoats and white shirt-fronts.
There were also a boy and a girl, both older than she ;
and the tall, stiff lady said :

" OUve, this is your cousin."

Olive kissed her on the cheek, and Margery noticed at
the time that her lips were rather hard.

JUGGERNAUT 39

" Good evening, Cousin Margety," she said.

Then the bo}^ in Eton jacket came forward quickly
and shyly, holding out both hands.

" Oh, I say, I am glad you have come, Margery !" he
said. " We've been expecting you, and tea is ready.
Aren't you hungry' ?"

And the tall, stiff lady said : " Walter, Walter !"

All this, the five years of enchanted childhood when
she lived with her mother in a bare but fairj' world, the
bhss and magic of it, the kindness and love and tender-
ness, were part of the Margery of to-da}^ essential to
her, as indissoluble from her as her bones or her blood.
That evening, too, when the old hfe ended and the new
life in the great house in Curzon Street began, was part
of her Hkewise, the well-meant but rather homj- kindness
of her aunt, Olive's conventional welcome, and the shy
eagerness of Walter to make her feel at home. And
when knowledge of what those earher years had really
been was gradually comprehended, and she guessed how
near they had been to actual grinding want, how close
to the border line that separates stark penury' from
comfort, it seemed to Margery- that their magic was mag-
nified ; for she reahzed how infinitely imselfish must have
been the love that could turn them into an ideal of
childish bliss, how brave the tenderness that guarded her,
and prevented her guessing how crude and cruel the
reality was. Her instinct and growing powers of observa-
tion helped her to interpret them, for Aunt Aggie never
spoke of them to the girl, nor did she ever allude to
Margerj^'s mother. She had made up her mind that it
was best for ]\Iarger\' to forget about her early Hfe alto-
gether, and, rather mistakenly, thought that if those
days were never alluded to, they would gradually fade
from the girl's memory. But, instead, the very silence
that was observed about them enshrined them in

40 JUGGERNAUT

Margery's soul, and helped to build the temple where
she worshipped and brooded over the sweetest memories
child ever had, which grew sweeter and more wonderful
as she grew to understand more clearly what must have
been the love that so transformed them.

That introduction to the house in Curzon Street was
typical of the six years that followed. Her aunt remained
stiff and tall — not unkind, but, unfortunately, not kind —
bringing up Margery most carefully and properly, but
doing everything from a sense of duty, though doing all
that sheer hard duty could possibly suggest. If she had
been a board of directors and Margery a property about
which she had to give annual reports to shareholders, she
would infallibly have earned a hearty vote of thanks
every year, and been nominated again to look after their
interests. Nor did she intend, by bringing Margery up
in this manner, to let her subsequently make her own
way in the world. Her French and German and music
were nearly as good as Olive's, and Mrs. Morrison was
aware that she would have done quite well by the girl
if she got her some good place as governess in a thoroughly
nice family. That would have been quite a " future "
for one whose mother was an obscure and perfectly un-
important actress. But Mrs. Morrison's sense of duty
made her plan a far more luxurious future for Margery
than that, and she intended that the girl should live with
her for the rest of her own life, with an allowance suffi-
cient for her to dress tidily and have a little pocket-
money of her own, and that she should be surrounded by
all the comforts with which Mrs. Morrison surrounded
herself. And, on her death, Margery would find that
she had inherited a sum of money which would enable
her to live in suitable obscurity and quiet for the rest of
her life. Mrs. Morrison was quite determined to do all
this, and yet not repent of her generosity.

JUGGERNAUT 41

Or, again, it was not impossible — it did not seem
likely, but it was not impossible — that somebody in a
decent station of life might wish to marry Margery.
There was the village schoolmaster, for instance, at
Ballards, who was quite an educated man, and played
the organ in church on Sunday with great expression.
Should such a man wish to marry her, Mrs. Morrison was
resolved, after making all due inquiries as to his thorough
respectability, to help Margery here also — to give her a
thoroughly nice plain trousseau, and not ever lose sight
of her afterwards. Olive would probably be married by
this time, and Walter out in the world, and even though
Margery's marriage would leave Mrs. Morrison alone
and without a companion, she did not intend to make
objections or stand in Margery's way. Other people
might have a less exalted ideal of duty than she, but she
had no intention of lowering her own standard to con-
form to the less exalted ideals of others.

But — God help the poor lady — in all these arid limit-
less deserts of duty there was not one drop of the water
of love, not one little pool or spring where the wayfarer
could quench his thirst. And Margery knew that ; Aunt
Aggie was the tall stiff lady still.

It was the same with the others, as it had been on that
chilly evening when she arrived at Curzon Street. Olive's
lips were still rather hard, but she never forgot that
Margery was her first cousin, or that it was kinder never
to refer to the dreadful years during which she had lived
" in a slum " (for that was how she phrased to herself
the words that never passed her lips) with the poor little
actress who was her mother. But, above all (and here
was immense consolation), Walter had never changed;
the genuine boyish welcome of six years ago had not lost
its ring. He was still " so glad " to see her.

Mrs. Morrison, as has been mentioned, was accustomed

42 JUGGERNAUT

to think it unlikely that any man should want ever to
marry Margery, but this conclusion, based upon Mar-
gery's general appearance and manner when first she
came to Curzon Street, perhaps needed revision nowadays.
Certainly a not very clever or perceptive woman might
easily have called the pale little sharp-featured girl, who
was generally so silent and so unhappy-looking, queer
and uninteresting, and likely to grow up into the type
that seems doomed and ordained to spinsterhood ; also,
change easily escapes notice if the changing object is
continually under one's eyes, and does not at any time
arouse particular interest. But the Margery of to-day
was indeed a vastly different being to the Margery of
six years back, though a student of physiognomy and
growth might have argued well for those sharp little
features, those big grey eyes, that mouth so easily given
to laughter or tears. It was an impressionable face even
then, quick to reflect a moment's mood, and a kindly,
tender spirit, bred from those enchanted years of child-
hood, directed its expression, so that it was possible that
it would not remain always queer and elfin. And it was
this thought that somehow occupied Walter that night,
when having soundly beaten Margery at billiards he went
to his room to smoke, in decent privacy, his first cigarette
before going to bed. He, too, for the last six years had
lived with Margery, and though on coming back from
school for his holidays he had often noticed that Margery
had grown (a fact of which Mrs. Morrison was also
conscious, as she paid for her frocks), up till now he had
been, except for that, almost as unconscious of change
in the girl as his mother. But that was not because he
looked upon her with an indifferent, and, at heart, a
slightly hostile eye, as his mother did ; it was because he
had always found her the same eager and satisfactory
playfellow, whose whole soul was set on winning what-

JUGGERNAUT 43

ever they played at, but whose whole soul recoiled from
cheating. Walter had been used somehow, in the girl-
despising atmosphere of a public-school, where a boy's
thoughts do not, as a matter of fact, lightly turn to
thoughts of love, but turn heavily to the proper pursuits
of the place, to think that girls as a class were useless for
all purposes, had no sense of honour, and were prone to
pinch and pull hair when causes of war arose. He had
had the sense, it is true, to exempt Margery from most of
these distressing limitations of her sex, for she did not
cheat at games (though keen), and it was not so many
years ago that she hit him the most amazing smack in
the face for putting Tapioca on to the track of a field-mouse
that they had found on the lawn. In consequence his
general verdict, given with approbation, had been that
Margery was more like a boy than a girl, and he noticed
change in her as little as he noticed it in regard to the
boys with whom he played, and bathed, and quarrelled
at Eton. But to-day, suddenly and unexpectedly, he
had seen her with eyes of other vision than those that
had looked on their frank comradeship, and that un-
known little impulse of protective tenderness that had
come to him that afternoon had occurred and recurred
again in the last few hours. It was quite different from
the feeling of taking a friend's part, a thing he had
habitually done with Margery, often in the teeth of
opposition ; it was something that had chivalry at its
base. To-night, for instance, at billiards, it had more
than once occurred to him purposely to miss some shot
that he was practically certain of accomplishing, in order
to see Margery win, and eventually he had done so,
rather obviously. That had been a dire failure ; it gave
Margery no pleasure at all. For a moment she did not
perceive the intention, and said " Hurrah, and I didn't
even hope you would miss that !" But then she guessed.

44 JUGGERNAUT

" Oh, Walter, I believe you did that on purpose," she
said. " It isn't any fun if you do that sort of thing.
Please have it again. You must, really."

So, rather savagely and vexed at the fiasco, he played
again and ran up a colossal break of twenty-three. And
Margery had marked them for hhn with a sigh of relief.
" That's all right," she said. " Now I can really play up."

He did not repeat the offence, though at the end when
he had inflicted two really crushing defeats on her, the
temptation to say, " I wish you had won one game,
anyhow," was strong. It would have been true, too, a
very queer state of affairs. And last, most inexplicably
of all, he would have liked to kiss her, when she said
" Good-night." But they had not kissed each other for
years, and he could not guess how she would take it.
Perhaps on the evening before he went away to Germany,
he might find tongue for his request, or, better still, just
— just kiss her. They were first cousins after all ; it was
no outrageous thing. But kinship, as he knew quite
well, would be an excuse, not a reason for such a pro-
ceeding.

He had forgotten about the experiment to be tried
with a cigarette, and had already half undressed ; but the
night was hot, and for caution's sake, so that the smell of
it should not find its way into the house (for his mother
was not admitted into the design), he sat as he was,
before the open window, and lit it. It was rather a
momentous affair, since it did not concern him alone,
but Margery also, for, if he reported well upon it, she was
going to have a cigarette with him to-morrow. Her
mother, she remembered, used sometimes to smoke on
the summer afternoons of those enchanted days in Rich-
mond Park, when rhododendrons flamed, and old Ogibogi
had forgotten to worry them; and the crisp fragrance
was entwined in her memory with them. But Walter,

JUGGERNAUT 45

who ought, like some pioneer of new countries, to have
attended closely to the characteristics of the unexplored
land, found his attention wandering, and soon let it
wander without heeding the business in which he was
engaged at all. To say that he had suddenly fallen in
love with Margery, would be an overstatement ; but he,
healthy and boyish and strong, had awoke to the fact
that she was a girl. The sense of sex had been kindled
in him, and she from whose fire the spark had come was
his playfellow and chum. Perhaps from Mrs. Morrison's
point of view, it was as well that the time here was short
before he went to Germany.

There were but a few days left — short decade of them —
before that event took place ; and, in external affairs, at all
events, the beginning of their passage was not much
different from what any other ten days towards the end
of Walter's holidays had usually been. The next morning,
for instance, was a virago of a day, and a blustering
south-west wind drove before it the shed petals of the
long border, and exacted a tribute of twigs and needles
yet unripe for falling from the cedar. In consequence,
as had often happened before, Walter and Margery
engaged their energies again at billiards, at the dissipated
hour of half-past ten, and since the storm seemed inclined
to persevere, defied it and went out in mackintoshes
when the morning began to be unbearably long. Wind
and rain somehow kindled Margery's always exuberant
vitality ; there was some sense of adventure to be abroad
in hurricanes.

She huddled herself close to Walter, and they left by
the garden door, and met the force of the gale.

" Oh, shut it behind you," she said, " or every door in
the house will bang, and they will ask where I am. Oh,
Walter, isn't the wind ripping ? Now we're cut off from

46 JUGGERNAUT

ever5^hing ; everything is miles away. There are oceans
of rain and wind between us and everything else. Oh,
and the cigarette — you never told me."

The bellowing wind screamed at them, and he had to
shout his reply, with mouth close to her ear.

" Where are we going ?" he cried. " Down to the
farm ?"

" Oh, anywhere ; what does it matter ? Let's go into
the woods first."

She took his arm, and they tacked across the lawn, for
it was hardly possible to walk in the teeth of the wind,
and leaned sideways up against it, till they came to the
garden gate that led to the big elm avenue. The great
trees were in trouble, for, weighed with the full wealth
of their summer foliage, the gale beat heavy and solid
against them, instead of streaming through their bare
branches, as when winter winds vexed them, and the
towers of leaf groaned and laboured. Already to leeward
of them the ground was strewn with ruin of small
branches ; and the rooks that inhabited these rocking
homesteads were circling uneasily about, or, when the
full blast of the gale caught them, were blown impotently
down-wind, to beat up again with striving pinions and
dishevelled feathers. Overhead the sky was one texture
of uniform grey, veiled by sheets of rain blown almost
horizontally out of the south-west, and the wind
thundered, as in a sail, from that low, dim vault. Even
as they looked a great branch was torn from one of the
elms near them and fell hissing through the air, and
crashed and rebounded in broken splinters and debris of
twigs as it reached the ground.

" Ah, poor thing !" shouted Margery. " What a
shame ! But the wind is wild ; it is mad. It didn't
think. Come, Walter."

From the elm avenue Margery and Walter turned down-

JUGGERNAUT 47

wind and were blown before it up the steep^ slippery
grass slope that led into the woods of the park. Here
the thicker growth of the trees standing compactly
shoulder to shoulder with branches interlaced was a
securer bulwark against the force of the wind than the
isolated elms of the avenue, and it poured over them like
a torrent roaring in the topmost branches, but not
getting inside the great house of trees, save in eddies and
draughts, and the driven rain no longer beat upon them,
but only reached them in droppings from the dense
foliaged roof of beeches. The path they had taken led
upwards, and soon they came to a stretch of open upland,
and ^largery put over her head again the hood she had
thrown back.

" We are divers again, Walter," she said. " We have
to dive through the torrent of the "wind. Look how the
birches bend and buckle. The rain is like clouds of white
smoke."

Walter shook a shower of wet from his cap.

" Remarkably wet smoke," he said.

" Yes. Oh, dear, aren't 5^ou enjo^dng it ? I just love it."

She had pulled back the crimson-lined hood so that
it hid her ears and her forehead, and her face only peered
out of it. The wind and buffeting of the rain, the struggle
against the fighting elements had flecked her cheeks with
lively colour, and the reflected red from the lining of the
hood added a tinge of crimson. And all her face was
ahve and alert, glorsing in the wild riot of the wind. And
again the new wonder of her struck him.

" You look like one of the — the storm-maidens," he
said. " \Miat is their name ? In that opera we saw in
the summer."

Marger}' laughed.

" Oh, I would have given ami:hing to be one of the
Valkyries !" she said. " Fancy riding in the air on this

48 JUGGERNAUT

storm. Hei-yah ! Hei-yah ! Don't you remember
Brunnhilde's cry ?"

" Brunnhilde ! Yes, that's the one," he said. " And
then — who was it ? — Wotan put her to sleep on the top
of the mountain, with the ring of fire round her, till
Siegfried came."

Walter stopped suddenly with words in his brain,
which he left unspoken. " And then he kissed her and
awoke her," was his thought. But Margery clearly was
absolutely unconscious of that, for her next words were
gloriously unconnected with what was in the boy's mind.

" Yes. I dare say Siegfried was very nice," she said,
with scrupulous fairness. " But don't you think every-
thing must have been rather flat after you had been
accustomed to ride on the storm ? Now we've got to
plunge across the open, and get among the fir-trees on
the other side. They make the nicest noise of all in a
wind."

They kept to the woods till they saw below them the
farm buildings, and from there made a dash to the
shelter of a big haystack, that stood to leeward of the
red-brick wall of the kitchen garden, and had a sloping
board roof over it. Here, away from the wind, a corner
had been cut out of it, like a slice from a loaf, giving them
a shelf to sit down on, with compact fragrant walls to
right and left. Outside, close to them, yet as sundered
from them as if they looked out from a closed window,
the white vapour of the rain drove past in maddened
volleys ; here they were in a cave built of the ripe June
grasses and flowers of the meadow. And then suddenly
Margery's mood, which had been so tuned to the storm
and the wind, veered completely round. That was no
new phenomenon to Walter ; that was completely charac-
teristic of her. She would be depressed and dispirited
one moment, bubbling with laughter the next, and hotly

JUGGERNAUT 49

arguing the third. But this morning it struck him how
dehcious and how sweetly bewildering were these changes.
She was half a dozen people rolled into one ; you never
knew " which of her " would appear next.

Again she threw back her hood and stretched herself
out on the hay, burying her face in it.

"Oh, how good it smells!" she said, "and yet it's
rather a sad smell. It's the smell of last summer. Oh,
Walter, look ! there are delicious little bits of dried
flowers in it, bits of clover and daisies, and this — this
must be meadowsweet. I wonder what we were doing
on the morning they cut it all down ! You were at Eton,
I expect, doing all sorts of nice things. Poor, dead
flowers and poor dead days !"

Here was one of Margery's " rum " thoughts. He tried
to get on the track of it, as an intelligent dog tries to
understand what his master wants. He was quite
successful on this occasion.

" I don't think any days are dead," he said, with
rather happy intuition. " At least, no nice days are dead,
because they go to make up one's — one's inside, and
make one expect good things of the days that are coming.
Or, is that rot ?"

" No, you dear, not a bit," said she. " It's a far more
sensible and truer view than mine. The poor dead days
tickle though, don't they ?"

She rubbed her nose violently.

" Oh, I'm going to sneeze !" she said. " They've gone
up my nose."

That was a true view in any case, and a fit of convulsive
sneezing seized her. The pepper of the dried flowers
and plants affected him also, and for some little time
between their laughter and their sneezing, the grave grey
haystack trembled with the unusual convulsions. Then
by degrees they quieted down, and sat less ensconced,

4

50 JUGGERNAUT

so that a little fresh air took off the pungency of the hay.
And again Margery's mood veered.

" Well, we ought to have got rid of the poor dead
flowers and the poor dead days," she said, wiping her
eyes. " Oh, I love laughing, but it leaves one so sad^
though crying doesn't leave one merry, which isn't fair.
So having got rid of them; let's look forward. Walter,
there are only nine days more. I hate your going away.
It will be so dull. It's much worse for me, you know,
because you have all sorts of nice new things to occupy
you, and there's nothing new for me."

" There's Flo," remarked Walter, " and her cushion
and brush and comb."

Margery laughed one little, rather soulless cackle, and
then was silent.

" Of course it was angelic of Aunt Aggie," she said at
length, " and I love people remembering my birthday.
But I don't like Flo, you know ; she only wakes up in
order to have dinner. I wonder what Aunt Aggie's new
dog will be like ? I'm sure it will be like Flo in a year
or two. You know she doesn't understand dogs a bit.
She likes them to lie still, and not bark or jump about

I can't help wondering if Oh, I am a little beast !"

" Go on — what is it ?" asked Walter.
Margery picked a few pieces of grass off Walter's
shoulder before she answered.

" It's — it's all this that makes it so beastly that you are
going away," she said. " Hasn't it ever struck you that
neither Aunt Aggie nor Olive like me ? Of course, I
don't see a bit why they should, but the fact is that they
don't. They never have, you know. And I've done all
I could to make them. One does like to be liked, and want
to be wanted. At least, I do, though I dare say that's
part of my queemess — and they both think I'm queer.
I expect it's all my fault that they don't like me, but if

JUGGERNAUT 51

only they did ! I feel it in my bones ; Aunt Aggie didn't
give me Flo because she liked me, but because she wanted
to get rid of Flo, and it was more convenient to give her
me, than— than — to drown her like the kitten."

" Which wasn't drowned at all," said Walter paren-
thetically.

" That's another matter. In principle it was drowned.
But they don't like me."

Walter was divided between loyalty to his mother and
affection for his friend.

" I don't know why you think that," he said. " Mother
has done a good deal for you. She needn't have done
nearly so much."

" She needn't have done anything," said Margery
quickly. " But if I went to Germany, she wouldn't miss
me.

Walter puzzled over this a moment. Then an ad-
mirably simple thought occurred to him.

" On the other hand, you don't like her," he said.

Margery turned her head slowly towards him in sheer
surprise.

" What ?" she said, as if she had not heard.

Walter repeated his remark, commenting :

" I don't think you are quite fair," he said. " Don't
you — don't you rather expect everybody to want you,
without seeing that it's only just that you should want
them ? It's only a suggestion, you know. Perhaps it's
all rot. But it strikes one rather."

Margery's much quicker mind flashed ahead of him
again.

" You mean I'm selfish " — she said — " that I only
think about myself. But is it selfish to want to be
liked ?"

" Well, it's not very unselfish," said he, " because it's
so awfully pleasant. I suppose we all want to be hked.

52 JUGGERNAUT

But to be pals, like — like you and me, we each of us must
like the other so — so awfully. At least, I do."

But this perplexing Margery was not thinking about him
at all.

" Yes, of course, all that/' she said. " But — but am
I selfish ? I do like lots of things so much, though I do
want them to like me back."

She pondered over this a moment.

" I suppose you're right," she said at length. " You
have to do your best to like other people, and leave their
liking you to take care of itself. Is that it ? But
supposing you like somebody very much, and he doesn't
like you ?"

" Oh, well, that would be rather sad," said he.

He looked at her a moment in silence, with the blood
suddenly flushing his smooth face, and Margery, with a
sudden impulse, laid her arm round his neck.

"Oh, Walter, you are the nicest !" she said. " And
there are only nine days more. It's too beastly. Don't
let us think about it."

" But please go on liking me after I go to Germany,"
he said, " because I shall miss you most awfully, and
I should hate thinking you didn't care !"

" I shall cry," she said, with decision. " Floods !"

Walter spoke quickly.

" And will you give me a kiss before I go ?" he asked.

" Yes, of course, if you like," she said. " I'll give
you one now."

She raised her face to his, and kissed him, half laughing.
And somehow that was not quite what the unreasonable
boy wanted. It meant nothing more than what he had
always known — namely, that she liked him very much.
And this morning he was not quite content to know that.

CHAPTER III

It was a sunny but cold morning of late October, and
Arnold Leveson was, as usual, busy with his work — the
nature of which had caused Mrs. Morrison to indulge in
certain mild speculations. She had conjectured, it may
be remembered, that, since he and his mother were
going to Egypt again — the word was Mrs. Leveson's —
which implied they had been there before, he was an
Egyptologist. That guess was more nearly right than
so random and insufficiently founded a surmise had any
right to expect to be ; for, though he was not an Egyptolo-
gist, his work was a study of the Greek colonization of
the Delta, the rise of Alexandria, and its exotic flower-
ing,| carrying on — though the seed was brought by an
alien from Macedonia — the matchless bloom of Greek
culture. The work, when his studies were complete, was
to take the form of a book, profusely illustrated.

The selection of the period was in itself somewhat
symptomatic of the leanings and tastes of its investi-
gator : he, perhaps, cared a little more for things which,
though not yet in decay, were a shade past their prime than
he did for them while they were in the lusty growth of
their youth ; he liked, at any rate, a very highly civilized
epoch, even though it was rather artificial, than the days
in which the culture of a nation was making its way
towards its appointed perfection. The age of Hadrian,
for instance, seemed to him a more attractive epoch than
that of Julius Csesar ; the age of Anne a more delicate

53

54 JUGGERNAUT

and exquisite affair than the breezier spaciousness of
Elizabeth. And more especially did he exult in such
sophisticated simplicity as that which sparkled in the
pages of Theocritus ; the real shepherd boys minding
their flocks on Attic hills, and minding much more the
maiden who tended her kids, were no doubt excellent
and simple young people, but he would not have taken
a walk to study them on the spot. He preferred that
they should be a httle crimped and curled, made clean
and tidy, and put into poetic setting. When treated
thus they seemed to him admirable, though when they
were in the natural state they were not more than
material to be worked up into graceful and artificial forms.
He had none of the instinct of the pioneer : he preferred
the beautiful creation of the generation that came after,
especially if it preserved an air of freshness and morning,
as the civilization of Alexandria certainly did.

Physically, as well as in the appointments of the charm-
ing south-facing room in which he worked, he reproduced
the fineness and fastidiousness of his mind, which indeed
was no dilettante organism, for he was far too delicate a
scholar, far too enthusiastic a student to be called dilet-
tante or amateur, except in the sense that he was a true
lover of his work. In person he was of average height,
but very slenderly built, and his face, no less than his
hands, were those of a man sensitive and highly strung.
A beard and moustache, light brown, almost of straw
colour, covered the lower part of his face, but his mous-
tache was cut back showing the lines of a very fine and
beautiful mouth, and his beard, short and trimmed to a
point, followed, without concealing, the thin oval of his
chin. His eyes, almost womanish in their softness,
looked out from under long and close-lying eyebrows,
and his nose, in the real Greek fashion — so common in
statues, and so rare in life — continued without a break

JUGGERNAUT 55

the plane of his forehead : this was high and very white,
and hair, sHghtly curhng and of a shade darker than his
beard, covered his small and shapely head. But though
the first impression of a not very skilled observer might
have noted only the finish and slight effeminacy of his
face, one more subtle might easily have conjectured that
beneath an exterior which at first sight was pretty raii.::r
than anything else, it would not be unreasonable to
conjecture a considerable tenacity and power. Finished
and delicate though the face was, it gave no impression
of softness ; it might very well be that it was, so to speak,
of steel, though it had been so cunningly finished that it
appeared as if it must have been of some less stubborn
material. It had a kind of graven quietness about it,
as if some relentless image, that recked nothing of its
mangled victims.

His room reflected him — as do all rooms that are really
lived in by their owner, and are not only cubic spaces which
he happens to inhabit — with no less accuracy than his
face. It was rather low, though of good proportions, and
a somewhat sumptuous surface of old Japanese gold paper
covered its walls. Low bookcases ran round two sides of
it, containing volumes all bound in calf or morocco ; it
was clear that he liked the tools and materials of his
work to be as exquisite as its subject. On the top of
these bookcases stood some dozen bronzes, reproductions
from the buried loveliness of Herculaneum ; and in a
glass case near one of the diamond-paned windows were
six or seven Tanagra figurines, the paint still lingering
on the robes of the slim classical shapes, and on their
braided hair and palm-leaf fans.

In another window, so that the light came from the
left, was the table at which he habitually wrote — a big
oblong of dark polished oak, of fine Italian workman-
ship. As a table for work should be, it was of ample

56

JUGGERNAUT

area, so that half a dozen books could be ready to his
hand and yet not trespass on the large morocco blotting-
pad. An onyx tray held his pens ; a silver inkstand, by
Paul Lamerie, faced him ; and to the right of it was a
blue-and-white porcelain saucer containing a few beautiful
Greek coins— a tetradrachm of Agrigentum, two of Syra-
cuse, and a couple more with the head of Alexander
horned in the manner of Zeus Ammon. These were but
a few which he liked to have by him to finger in moments
of thought or relaxation ; the cabinet with double locks
standing by the door contained his very valuable collection.

His taste, however, would not seem to be narrow or
over eclectic. Like all true lovers of beauty who are not
blinded by the fascination of one particular period and
shut their eyes to all else, he believed that there is a kin-
ship among all beautiful things, that makes harmony, not
discord, between them ; and his taste, though fastidious,
was catholic. Though Greek bronze crowned his book-
cases, his chimney-piece had decoration of Dresden
figures, standing on each side of a lyre-shaped Louis XVI.
clock, while at the two extremities were gilded wooden
candlesticks of sixteenth-century Italian work. On a
third wall hung two or three Re5molds prints ; a twilight
Thames-scape by Whistler glowed subduedly on the
fourth, and to his mind neither gained nor lost beauty
from the proximity of a Turner of the second period
which hung beside it.

This morning the earliest frost of the year had whitened
the grass and blackened the dahhas that stood in the long
bed outside his window, and a fire of peat and coals
glowed in the basket grate of the hearth, and lit reflected
flames in the old Dutch tiles that flanked it, while Arnold
Leveson allowed himself a few moments of leisure, until
he finished his cigarette, to warm his hands at the bou-
quets of flame that fringed the molten core of the fire.

JUGGERNAUT 57

Yet this was scarcely in the nature of an indulgence, for
the clock on his mantelpiece indicated that it was still
a few minutes to half-past ten, the hour at which he,
with admirable regularity, sat down to his w^ork. He
was, indeed, regular in everything, finding it easier to
be punctual than not ; and although, as has been said,
his work was a labour which he loved, he would, even in
the middle of a sentence, wipe his pen on the tassel of
black silk cords that hung from the handle of his writing-
table drawer, and rise from his work when the same
clock chimed one, in order to take his little walk with
his mother in the garden before lunch. In the afternoon
he rode, if the weather was fine ; but even if its inclemency
caused him to stop indoors, he never touched his work
again till after tea. From six until the gong for dressing
sounded he was student once more, and at that moment
replaced his papers in the drawer, closed his books, after
putting a marker in each, and went up to his bedroom. On
Sunday he never worked at all — less perhaps from Sabba-
tarian principles than because he believed that six days
out of seven was as much work as should be demanded
of a brain that wished its output to be nothing less than
the best of which it was capable. His regularity, it may
be added, was not in the least offensive or blatant : he
merely found that such a habit gave excellent results,
and that it was simpler to be regular than not.

Before he went to warm his hands at the fire he had
disposed the notebooks and volumes of reference which
he was likely to need that morning, so as to be easily
accessible, and when the clock struck there were no more
preliminary adjustments to be made. Propped up in
front of him was the skeleton of the projected book,
divided into chapters, with each chapter already blocked
out into the headings of the matter which it should con-
tain. Three chapters of the entire fifteen of which the

58 JUGGERNAUT

book, when complete, would consist were already fully
written, and reposed in typed manuscript in his drawer,
and this morning he was going to begin the fourth, which
dealt with the library at Alexandria. The loss of that
by burning seemed to him one of the great tragedies in
the world's history ; he could not think of it without
emotion, and it is not beyond the mark to say that he
shrank from writing this chapter of his book, as he would
shrink from writing a memoir of some dear dead friend.
He was student and scholar to the core ; beauty and
books, and, in particular, the beauty to be found in books,
were his chief access to life.

This morning the hours passed with more than their
usual swiftness, and it needed a second glance at the
clock, when it struck one, to convince him that the time
had come for him to close his work, and go out with his
mother into the cool brightness of the October day. She
was indeed waiting for him in the hall, and a glance at
her showed to whom he owed his delicacy of feature and
perhaps of mind. He was an excellent son to her, con-
siderate and courteous, and ever careful of her comfort,
and she valued his very genuine affection as she valued
nothing else in this world. There was nothing, it is true,
fiery or impulsive about it ; but since a man's affection,
hke his tastes, take their colour from his character, she
was not so unreasonable as to expect from him a quality
which he was without. Indeed, she scarcely desired
that a warmer relation than that very quiet and solid
one which existed should have a place between them.
But, mother-like, she would dearly have loved to see him
in flame for another ; she longed for him to fall in love,
to marry. She was proud of his exquisite scholarship,
of his power of brilliant and delicate research, but she
strongly desired a more human fate for him than his
devotion to ancient Alexandria.

JUGGERNAUT 59

" Well, my dear, and how has the morning gone ?"
she asked.

" Only too quickly. I could scarcely believe it was
one o'clock. Has nothing come for me from the London
library ? There are some books I ordered which I shall
want in a day or two. Have you enough on, mother ?
It will be a little chilly, and you must not catch cold."

" Oh, we will walk briskly," said she. " Yes, a box
came for you during the morning, but I told them not
to interrupt 3^ou. A note also came from Mrs. Morrison,
asking us to dine one day next week."

" Mrs. Morrison ?" he asked. " Ah, yes, I remember.
She and her daughter called. I do not know that I very
much care about dining out. It shortens the hours
after tea very much, and we have but a month before we
go south."

She laughed.

" My dear, you are like the woman who refused an
invitation because it was her last night but fourteen at
home. I don't very well see how we can refuse. Mrs.
Morrison asks us to name our night. Any night next
week apparently will suit her,"

" There are certain exhibitions of hospitality that
should be considered as unprovoked assaults," said
Arnold. " I am not sure that they ought not to be
punishable."

" I feel sure she only means to be neighbourly," said
his mother.

" No doubt. I only point out that the neighbourli-
ness is of an imperative kind. You can hardly say, ' I
will not dine with you ever on any night,' and short of
that you have to say which the night will be."

Perhaps at the back of Mrs. Leveson's mind was her
constant desire that her son should marry. To do that
it was necessary that he should meet eligible girls, and to

6o JUGGERNAUT

her rather sanguine eyes Olive had appeared to have
claims to be considered in that class.

" Indeed, dear, I think that is our only course," she
said, " and really an occasional dining out is quite a
good thing for us both when we are in the country. I
think it is an excellent piece of discipline, especially
for those who, like us, come into the country for work
and quiet, to have to stir themselves occasionally, and
be interested in what strangers are interested in."

" Ah, if I may consider it discipline, it is a different
matter," he said. " I only rebel at looking upon it as a
festal occasion, a treat. But what if Mrs. Morrison is not
interested in anything ? She looks as if that might easily
be the case with her."

*' It is not very likely. I never met anyone who was
really not interested in anything, though I grant you, it
may take a long time to find out what it is. I will back
myself, dear, to find out what it is she is interested in
before you."

" This is the jam with the discipline-powder," said he.
" Well, I suppose we must go. Will you say how
charmed we shall be ?"

" Yes, and probably with truth," she said. " Most
likely we shall have a very pleasant evening."

" Then say how charmed we expect to be afterwards,"
he suggested, " not how charmed we are. Look how the
frost has blackened your favourite bed, mother ! Yet
I am not sure that the smell of the first frosts of the year
does not compensate for their slight savageness towards
horticulture. There is something so exquisitely clean
and austere about it. It smells of nothing at all ; that is
why it smells so good. It is like a beautiful mind that
has neither prejudices nor regrets nor desires."

She smiled.

" I prefer a little more humanity both in minds and

JUGGERNAUT 6i

in the way the frosts wreck my poor flowers," she said.
" Look ! there is but a blackened row of heads, where
the dahhas were so gorgeous yesterday. It has not
spared one ; it is a complete slaughter of the innocents."

The ruin of the flowers was certainly thorough, and
Arnold, though searching to find consolation for his
mother, could see none there. Then an idea struck
him.

" The balance is always struck," he said. " Nature is
never unfair. Think of the celery, how the frost which
has given blackness to your dahlias, will have given
crispness to that."

" I am afraid, dear, you are greedy," said his mother,
mourning over her stricken flowers.

" Not in the least ; that is a great mistake. A man
who has an educated and sensitive palate is no more
greedy than the man who appreciates good wine is a
drunkard. A greedy fellow eats too much, just as the
drunkard drinks too much. But it is only the dullard
in the matter of taste who does not appreciate good wine
or good food."

" Let us be thankful for the celery, then," said she.

" By all means, and try to forget about the dahlias.
But what I say, though you laugh at it, is literally true.
Greed is shown with regard to every sense — seeing, hear-
ing, tasting alike — not by the keenness of a man's appre-
ciation, but by his desire for quantity rather than
quality. The people who demand an encore for some
exquisite song are just as greedy as those who want
several helpings of a favourite dish. The people who
spend the whole morning in the Royal Academy are as
greedy as those who take too much wine."

" But the Royal Academy does not give one indigestion
or make one drunk," she said.

" I should say it did : it gives one a headache, and

62 JUGGERNAUT

headache is indigestion of the eye— at least that sort of
headache is. Just as you ache elsewhere if you eat too
much. And the stupidity which it induces is, I should
say, very much akin to drunkenness arising from wine
of somewhat inferior quality. We had better keep to
the gravel, perhaps ; are not your shoes rather thin for
the wet grass ? We are sheltered from the v/ind here,
also."

Accordingly they turned and retraced their steps down
the broad gravel walk which lay below the house.

"It is a common error to confuse the appreciation of
things that taste nice with greediness," he said, " and
what makes the error more patent is the fact that taste
and smell are almost indistinguishable. Yet we are
accustomed to consider the woman who buries her face
in a bowl of roses and drinks in their rather obvious
fragrance as showing a certain artistic sensibility, whereas
we consider the man who loses himself over the fine
flavour of an olive as rather gross. Yet to appreciate
the flavour of an olive shows a far more delicate sense
than to appreciate the smell of a rose. Some day I must
make a table to suggest the correlative values of the
various senses — taste, smell, hearing, sight, touch. The
taste of roast beef, for instance, would correspond with
the smell of asphalt and the sound of Handel's " Hallelujah
Chorus," and the sight of Frith's Derby Day, and the
touch of plush. Perhaps plush is out of tone : let us
substitute the touch of those curious sort of fibre skeletons
of cucumber or something of the kind, which you find
occasionally in bathrooms. I think you are meant to
scratch yourself with them when you have had your
bath."

Arnold Leveson spoke very slowly and thoughtfully ;
he did not rattle out those rather surprising statements
with any brilliant air or swift execution. They came, it

JUGGERNAUT 63

was clear, not from his lips but from his brain, and thus
had a totally different value. He was not attempting
(nor did he ever do so) to make conversation : he only
said that which the trend of the conversation led him
to think about. And his mother did not fall into the
error of assuming that he was talking nonsense, for the
very simple reason that this amiable social gift was not,
as far as she knew, among his accomplishments. She
might, perhaps, on thinking over what he had said,
decide that as far as she was concerned, it was nonsense ;
but she would not even dismiss it as such in her own
case, until she had given it her consideration. She was,
also, quite sure that these speculations had not been
uttered as such. He would no more have talked non-
sense on purpose than he would have made a pun.

" I should like to see your tabulated correlation of the
senses," she said. " And where would you place all that
is spread in front of us now ? What sound or what taste
is there to bring up a corresponding sensation ?"

Certainly the question was not easy of answer. In
front of them lay a great sweep of declining meadow,
emerald of grass, and shimmering under the melted hoar
frost of the night before. To the south lay the beech-
wood, gold and russet, and where its shadows still fell
on the grass the frost was yet unmelted, and a streak of
pearl-white bordered the emerald. Beyond, rising above
the tops of the beech-trees, stretched the broad, empty
slope of the downs, with the chalk below the grass showing
here and there in gashes of silver. Above, the sky was
pale unflecked turquoise, without flaw.

Arnold Leveson looked at it seriously. The correlative
table of the senses was by no means a chance idea ; he
never uttered a chance idea until he had convinced himself
that there was something to be said for it.

" Autumn !" he said at length, " and the first frost.

64 JUGGERNAUT

But though winter follows autumn, spring follows winter,
and one sees the time when the copse will be yellow with
primroses and celandine, or blue with wild hyacinth,
rather than pale with the death of December. Is it not
rather like Walter's first song in the " Meistersinger," for
which Beckmesser ploughs him ? But in his brain is the
Preislied. There is the promise of spring in spite of the
Beckmesser frost."

This was certainly ingenious, but to Mrs. Leveson's
mind it was slightly inhuman. She wished he had taken
another simile which occurred to her.

" To me it seems like some young girl," she said, " who
is repressed, and is made a slave for the time to an icy
conventional code. But spring is coming for her."

Arnold gave this his most accurate attention.

" Quite admirable," he said, " but I thought you asked
me what correlative position the scene occupied in the
realm of sound or taste ? I gave you my impression as
regards sound. Your young girl has to be sound or taste,
you know. She does not quite fulfil your own conditions.
The voice of a young girl now : do you mean that ?"

Mrs. Leveson was never quite impatient, but she was
nearly impatient now.

" I think you are a shade too academic for me," she
said. " There is the gong for lunch. Let us go in. I
hope they will have sent you in some celery, dear."

Arnold was quite imperturbable.

" You like it too, do you not ?" he asked.

This conversation, trivial and superficial though it
may be, has been detailed at some length because it was
very characteristic of the mind which was the chief
contributor to it. As his mother had said, he was a
shade too academic for her ; but the accuracy he demanded
of others, it is only fair to add, he exacted from himself.

JUGGERNAUT 65

He was naturally fond of discussion, and since to the
scholar's mind complete accuracy in minutiae is part of
the essential basis of investigation, it was little wonder
that he brought with him from his study, so to speak,
into the other rooms of the house the meticulous exacti-
tude which his work entailed on him. Yet it would be
a misnomer to label him pedant, for in the pedantic mind
there is always present the desire to inform others ;
whereas Arnold was quite free from any such improving
intention. But, as he would have been the first to
acknowledge, his desire to inform himself was the ruling
principle of his life, so warmly pursued as to almost attain
the dignity of a passion. And if, as he had himself
asserted. Nature always strikes a balance, it may be
reasonably supposed that, if, in mixing the cup of his
personality, she had put in a somewhat profuse allowance
of this spirit of student, she had caused the cup not to
overflow by granting him a somewhat sparing quantity
of the spirit of the humanity that chiefly occupies itself
in living and loving, and learns but incidentally. With
him the learning came first ; the needs of his mind were
the first claim upon his attention. And there was no
denying the fineness and the beauty of his mind, its
exquisite taste, its utter aloofness from anything gross.
It sat cool and quiet and apart, testing and observing.
Such; at any rate, was the opinion of her who knew him
best, and if some spiritual analyst had brought her a
report framed on such lines as these of her son, she would
willingly have signed the declaration that to the best of
her knowledge the account was, on the current date, a
correct one.

The dinner-party which Mrs. Morrison proceeded to
arrange round the new-comers, as soon as she got Mrs.
Leveson's " charmed " reply, was in most respects like
all other country dinner-parties when a dozen or so of

5

66 JUGGERNAUT

people are collected from about the same number of miles
of adjacent country to meet and eat at one table, being
brought together without any inherent personal aptness,
whereas, had they followed their private inclinations,
they would have let their motors and carriages repose
in the coach-houses and have eaten at their own tables.
But to-night was something of an occasion, since the
object of the party was that the neighbourhood might
meet in more intimate and longer conversation than is
incidental to card-leaving the new-comers to the district,
and Mrs. Morrison had but few refusals. Indeed, the
only contretemps before the evening arrived was that
on the very morning of the day of the gathering the
clergyman's wife was suddenly stricken with influenza,
and Mrs. Morrison was " a lady short." That, however,
in her very conveniently composed household was easily
remedied, since it was perfectly simple for Margery to
dine downstairs, instead of having her supper in the school-
room, with Flo snoring on her cushion by the fire. She
had a slight cold, it is true, which was the actual deter-
mining factor in her dining upstairs instead of down ;
but her fate was generally kept in abeyance like this, so
that, had it been settled that she should dine downstairs,
and a man had been visited with a sudden affliction like
Mrs. Sawyers, Margery, whether she had a cold or not,
would have dined upstairs. The incident seemed trivial
enough at the time, and Nature, who invariably carries
out what she means to do, would certainly have thought
of some other plan of securing the meeting which was
necessary to her design, but, as it was, Mrs. Sawyer's
sudden influenza saved her the trouble of making any
further arrangements. It also gave Mrs. Morrison an
opportunity to say to herself that it would be a treat for
Margery to dine downstairs and hear so much amusing
conversation.

JUGGERNAUT 67

Margery's cold, as has been said, was but slight, and it
did not in the least turn her into a puffy and blear-eyed
caricature of herself. Instead, it merely gave a certain
added moistness and softness to her eyes, a little heightened
colour — she had sat over the fire for a good part of the
afternoon — to her face, which was far from unbecoming,
and the opportunity to wear a light blue silk shawl over
her shoulders. It had not seemed a very charming
opportunity to the girl, but, in spite of her opinion that
it looked frumpy, her aunt insisted on it, saying that it
was better to be sensible and not make a cold worse than
to care how she looked. Margery, however, was com-
pletely in error about the frumpiness ; the shawl draped
into charming lines, and was exactly of the same shade
as the blue ribands of her white muslin.

She fell to the lot of the youngest man present, and
as this was Harry Morland, a friend of Walter's, who had
left Eton the same term as he, and been put firmly on a
stool in his father's ofiice in the City, she was quite
content with her lot. They had both heard from the exile
in Germany within the last week, so that there was plenty
to talk about, and their chatter and laughter over Walter's
wail gave an earlier vivacity to dinner than it might
otherwise have enjoyed, for country parties of this nature
seldom get going till fish has gone. But Walter's news
started the two off at once.

" My letter was chiefly about food," said Harry ; " he
says you have jam with everything ; plum jam in the
soup, gooseberry jam with veal, and cherry jam with
chicken."

" Mine was about baths and windows," said she, " he
says the former are rare and the latter are shut."

Arnold, who had taken in Olive Morrison, and was
seated just opposite, heard this. He had got no farther
at present than to assure Olive that their drive had not

68 JUGGERNAUT

been cold because they had plenty of rugs, and to ascer-
tain that Olive did not hunt, had never been to Egypt,
and Hked dogs pretty well. She was just going to ask
him if he took any interest in the Suffragette question,
on which she had several prepared remarks, to the effect
that if women were going to get the vote, they would not
get it that way^ and that it was too bad to interrupt
Cabinet Ministers at their meetings, when the laughter
over poor Walter's Teutonic tribulations made him look
up. He had not seen Margery before, for she had seques-
tered herself in the drawing-room, and IMrs. Morrison,
thinking it was not good for a mere girl to be brought
forward too much, had not introduced her to Mrs. Leveson
or her son.

" How enchanting fragments of conversation are which
have no context," he said to Olive. " ' Baths are rare, and
windows shut.' One ought never to inquire the context :
such remarks are like bones of unknown animals brought
from remote countries."

" Yes !" said Olive, who was not very quick. " I
expect they are talking about my brother Walter, who has
gone to Dresden."

" Ah, you have given me the species and habitat of
my mysterious animal," said he. " Who is that girl
opposite ? Let me know all about it now."

" Oh, that is m.y cousin Margery," said Olive. " She
lives with us."

He was still looking at her, admiring the delicious
gaiety and enjoyment of her face, but admiring almost
more the folds of the shawl she wore. It came close over
her shoulders, leaving her slender neck bare. She had
wrapped one hand in it, and it reminded him of the gracious
simplicity of one of his Tanagra statuettes — that of a
young girl seated on a rock. There was a touch — and
more than a touch — of something really Greek about this

JUGGERNAUT 69

cousin of Miss Morrison's. Her head was small, her
hair came low over her forehead, and it was set on her
neck with that lissom though upright poise, so character-
istic of Greek work. Enghsh women, as a rule, to his
mind looked as if they had stiff necks. Margery happened
to look up at the same moment, and for an instant their
eyes met. Then he turned to Olive again.

" She lives with you ?" he asked. " That must be
delightful for you and her alike. The English are usually
so uncousinly about their cousins ; there is no sense of
clanship. You get it in Scotland, and you get it again
in Italy, where in old days, at any rate, a family house
was a family house, and the father and mother lived on
one floor, the eldest son with his wife and family on another,
and as likely as not a married daughter on the third.
But I suppose propinquity has its disadvantages as well."

Olive had been more than once told by her mother that
what men liked was not that a girl should tell them her
views about anything, but that she should take an interest
in what they were saying. So she asked if that was the
case in Egypt also. This was not a conspicuous success, for
he had nothing more to say, except that as far as he was
aware, it was not the case, and then fell that first momen-
tary pause, and both wondered what to say next. He
thought first.

" There are but few things in the world I quarrel
with," he said, " but the English winter is one. My
mother and I always try to get off before the end of
November."

" That must be very pleasant," said Olive. " I suppose
it is quite hot in Egypt all the time ? We are always
here till after Christmas, and go to town in January."

" I fail to see why people go to London at all if they
can avoid it," he said.

" Are you not fond of the theatre ?" she asked. " We

'JO JUGGERNAUT

go a great deal in London, and to concerts. Are you
fond of music ?"

Arnold was suddenly filled with a mild exasperation
at these idiotic questions. She was quite capable of
asking him if he was fond of reading. But it was his duty
to make himself as agreeable as he could manage, and he
detached a strand from this general question, and said
something about Strauss. Olive, however, by the quahty
of the interest she showed in Strauss, firmly and finally
and unintentionally, rendered any further discussion on
the point difficult.

" We went to several concerts at the Queen's Hall last
year," she said, " where tiiey did pieces by Strauss, but
it was very hard to grasp them. Do you not find it
hard to grasp them ? There is very little tune in them,
I think. Have you seen Salome ? It was being done
in Paris, when I was there last year, but my mother did
not want to go. But we saw the Salome dance at the
Palace, though I fancy that was not by Strauss."

But by ill-luck Arnold had not seen that, and in con-
sequence Olive could not show interest in what he thought
of it. In fact, the subject seemed to be heading back to
the theatre again, but she dexterously tweaked it away,
and said that if he was going to Egypt he would miss
the season of English opera in January and February.
" Did he care about opera ?" She had noticed also that
at present he had eaten no meat. " Are you a vege-
tarian ?" therefore was a question that might prove of
interest later. But this promising topic was instantly
snatched away from her, for at the moment he took
venison. But, still, venison led to Scotland. That
would come after opera. There was no opera in Scotland.
At least she thought not. Inquiry, however, could be
made on this point.

It was about at this moment that Mrs. Morrison

JUGGERNAUT 71

glanced round the table, and, at the sight, the satisfaction
of a hostess spread over her face. Literally she had not
had time to survey her guests before, so continuous had
been her conversation with Sir Richard Fortescue, who
sat on her right, and was full, figuratively speaking, of the
Territorial Army. Everyone else was talking, too ; that
was the great point, and it was not her business to find out
whether they were interested or not in their various con-
versations. As long as they ate and talked, she need
concern herself no further.

But it was time to shift the currents, and as Sir Richard
was at this moment employed on a second helping of
venison, she could easily turn to her neighbour on the left,
and remark for the second time that evening that there
had been six degrees of frost the night before, and it
seemed just as cold to-night, if not colder. But there was
so much damp in the air, one always felt cold more if it
was damp. This observation, as she had hoped it would
do, led to observations about the delights of Switzer-
land in winter, and she had leisure to see whether
her redirection of the flow of conversation had been
obeyed.

Yes : so far so good. Mr. Leveson was duly inclined
towards his right instead of towards Olive ; but somewhere
opposite them, in a place she could not see without leaning
forward, there was a break. Simultaneously she heard
two young laughs, and divined at once that Margery
was still talking to Harry Morland. But Margery had
no manners : she owed her want of them to her unfor-
tunate parentage. Happily, however, she herself was
opposite Olive, and by catching Olive's eye and then
looking smartly to the left, she might be able to indicate
what Margery was guilty of. So Olive, understanding
the signal, for she had already observed that Margery
was continuing to talk " wrong," fixed her pensive gaze

72 JUGGERNAUT

on that young lady, till Margery looked up. Then she
held Margery's eye, and directed her own away from Mr.
Morland to the desert-island neighbour. And so by a
little tact, the wheels were set spinning again.

Mrs. Morrison, though she always provided her guests
with an excellent dinner, was not m the drawing-room after-
wards quite so good a chef with regard to entertaining
there, as was he who had provided for the dining-room.
She was not a card player herself, and held that bridge
killed conversation ; but she had a card-table laid out in
the second drawing-room, where stood a shut Bechstein
grand, and when the gentlemen came in after their cigar-
ettes, said in a chilling tone, " I don't know if anybody
cares to play bridge." That was literally true ; and since
she took no steps whatever to find out, nothing happened.
The ladies, who had been sitting in a loose kind of circle,
each edged a little farther away from each other, men
inserted themselves into the holes, and they all began to
talk in couples again. Thus securely arranged, no power
short of an earthquake, or the announcement of carriages,
as a rule, could get them resorted again : they were a
Stonehenge of stability.

Arnold Leveson had entered almost last of the men,
and there were but two or three manholes left unoccupied.
He went to the nearest, which was next Margery. She
had evidently been expecting her friend Harry to take
this place, but she smiled a welcome to the other. In-
stantly Mrs. Morrison swooped do\\Ti ; if Mr. Leveson was
going to talk to Margery she must be introduced. It
was like Margery to appear capable even of talking to
anybody to whom she had not been formally made
known.

" And now we are all right," said Arnold. " Please
tell me more about your cousin Walter."

Margery's eye brightened.

JUGGERNAUT 73

" Oh, do you know Walter ?" she said.

" No : I only know he finds baths rare and windows
shut, and is learning German in Dresden."

Margery laughed, tilting her head a little back with
exactly the gesture of the Tanagra figure.

" I must have been talking far too loud then," she
said. " I'm sure you heard me say that at dinner."

" I don't deny it. It made me laugh, which is always
a good thing."

" Yes ; except when it is particularly important to be
grave. I want to laugh most then."

" Of course ; trying to be grave is the most humorous
thing there is. It isn't fair, is it, that some people should
be grave naturally, without trying ?"

Margery considered this.

" I don't know," she said. " I expect people who are
gay without trying have the best time. Think of dogs
and cats. Dogs are so much the happier."

His habitual accuracy cropped up here.

" I think I disagree," he said. " Cats have so many
mysteries and secrets. That must be so enchanting for
them. A piece of paper on the end of a string is only a
piece of paper on the end of a string for a dog, but for a
cat it is something dangerous and weird that has to be
stalked from behind the legs of chairs and other hiding-
places. Or it grows dusk, and a dog simply goes to
sleep. But that is a magical hour for cats. The room
they really know quite well becomes a jungle or a primeval
forest. They make wild scurries across the hearth-rug,
they hide behind curtains, and peer at one with faces of
excitement and rapture. And then, alas ! for the broken-
windedness of illusions, they become suddenly bored with
their own inventions, walk quite slowly to the middle of
the room, put up a hind-leg like a flagstaff, and devote their
staid and middle-aged attentions to licking their tails."

74 JUGGERNAUT

Margery leaned forward in her chair, looking very young
and very much alive.
" Oh, it's lovely !" she said. " Do go on !"

It was not long before Mrs. Leveson's carriage was
announced, for they had an hour's drive before them, and
Arnold had insisted on ordering it early, thinking that
he would certainly have had enough of the evening. But,
as a matter of fact, he was quite sorry to go, for Margery
and her fresh eager interest was like a cool breeze in a hot
room. He did not, as a matter of fact, care very much
for cats, though he had observed them with a very accurate
eye. Certainly the evening, taken as a whole, had not
been completely a waste of time.

The night was chilly, and he pulled the window up as
they started.

" What curious contrasts one sees," he said to his
mother. " That girl I talked to after dinner was so mar-
vellously different from anyone else there. She happened
to be alive, authentic. She will be wonderfully beautiful,
too. Dear me, how young you feel while you are talking
to a girl, and how dreadfully old when you cease."

" My dear, whether you feel dreadfully old or not, you
are certainly young yet," said his mother.

He laughed.

" She would not agree with you," he said. " I should
like to hear her talk me over with that boy who sat next
her at dinner. ' What a dear old thing !' she probably
said."

Mrs. Leveson's maternal plans for her son were never
wholly absent from her mind. She certainly wished that
Margery had been rather older, but it was something that
Arnold should appear to take the slightest interest in any
girl. And then this little encouragement was suddenly
damped.

JUGGERNAUT 75

" She is like a Tanagra figure," he said, " of the best
period."

At this she lost patience a moment.

" Ah, Arnold, if you would only think that your Tanagra
figures are like girls, instead of the other way round," she
permitted herself to say.

That was a mistake. She could not direct his likes by
the expression of a wish. He was silent a moment.

" Dear mother," he said at length, " you must put up
with me. Some men are born to be husbands and fathers.
I am really a freak of nature, I suppose. I like my studies
so much better than anything else. I think, for an
exception, I will do an hour's work before I go to bed.
I got to a really critical point this evening when I had to
go and dress."

Yet the fact that he had even alluded to the existence
of the great class of husbands and fathers (and that, too,
in a kind of apology for not belonging to them) was some-
thing. She did not know that after he had gone to his
study that night he took out the Tanagra in question,
and confirmed its likeness to Margery. That, had she
known it, would have been something more.

CHAPTER IV

Margery — a very different Margery from the one
presented now more than two years ago on the night
of Mrs. Morrison's dinner-party — was seated by the fire
in the room that had been the schoolroom in those days
and had now, chiefly because nobody else wanted it,
come to be known as Margery's room — reading and medi-
tating over, and again reading, the letter she had just
received. Every now and then her mouth lengthened
and uncurled into a smile ; but the smile was never of
long duration, and those delicately finished ends of her
lips drooped again downwards in a kind of childish regret
and appeal. Her eyes, too, were in similar April mood ;
sometimes they brightened with a tender gaiety, but the
prevailing expression was, like that of her mouth, partly
appealing, partly sad. But they never froze ; they were
never other than kind : April, it would appear, was
beyond the reach of frost. Rain might threaten, weather
cloudy or weeping might threaten, but there was no hint
of a spell of winter to follow. May and June — though
in what fashion it was not clear — were the inevitable
sequence of the months.

It was April, too, in the external procession of the
seasons — an April that corresponded very well with the
more intimate affairs that concerned her — and, as usual,
Mrs. Morrison had left London to spend a week or two
in the country, before the season of social efforts began.
Never, in these matters of wind and weather, had there

76

JUGGERNAUT 11

been a more deliciously inconstant month, except that,
as in the case of Margery herself, there had been no hint
of frost. But dear April had done everything else possible ;
there had been great gales (and for that matter, there was
one trumpeting and bugling now), there had been days
of still grey skies, and gently descending rain. There
had been days of heavenly cool brightness, and days
that had been borrowed even from the very heart and
soul of midsummer. Nobody could tell (least of all
apparently the professional weather prophets) what was
going to happen next, and the growth of spring-time had
been almost equally puzzled. Daffodils shot up bravely
in the shady places of the woods, and their bravery was
rewarded by being incontinently pelted to bits by violent
showers. And yet those same showers only caused fresh
buds to rear their bold sheaths above the ground and
press forward with growth of sappy stem, pregnant and
enlarged. The wood anemones fared no less uncertainly ;
it was only the tight, hardy, httle squibs of hawthorn
bud which were indifferent to these variable moods of
the weather. They were impervious to shower, varnished
and water-tight, partaking perhaps a little of the nature
of the parent stem, which bred thorns as easily as flowers
or leaf. But the daffodils had no kinship with thorny
things. No more had Margery : her aunt, it may be
remembered, was no blood relation.

She was seated by the fire, and in one of those emo-
tional pauses — nobody can sustain an emotion of any sort
by itself for many minutes — which always interrupt the
thread of any train of thought, however closely it concerns
the thinker, she wondered why there was a fire, for the
evening was quite warm, and the only clear result from
the fact of the fire was that occasional puffs of smoke were
shot into the room when some more than usually violent
blast passed overhead. Then she remembered that she

78 JUGGERNAUT

had lit it herself, from sheer mechanical movement,
suggested by the fact that it was laid ready for lighting.
In the same way she had several times in this last half-
hour risen from her chair and paced up and down the
room, for no reason except that there was an empty
space to walk about in.

And then suddenly she spoke aloud in a sort of wail.

" Oh, and he is such a darling, too," she said.

It was the beloved Walter who was the darling ; it
was his letter, received two days before, that was still
being read and reread by her. And the beloved Walter
was expected home this very evening. Yet Margery's
voice wailed as she spoke of him.

For the greater part of these last two and a half years
he had been abroad learning his languages, and now
critical affairs were on hand. He came home now to go
in for his Foriegn Office examination in a month's time,
and in the interval before that he was to celebrate his
coming-of-age. That was no small affair ; no question
of a gold watch from the servants and a hundred pounds
from his mother. He stepped, on the last day of April,
into a huge property, and there was going to be a dance
and an address from tenants, and an immense presenta-
tion. And all the time he was thinking, so this letter
showed Margery, not of the examination at all, nor of the
festivities in his honour. He was thinking of her. He
wondered if she knew how much. She did. And the
worst of it was that he wrote in such gloriously high
spirits.

Margery looked helplessly round the room. It was
full of things that connected her and Walter. There
were the stuffed remains of Tapioca, in a glass case,
with a brilliant sunset painted on the back of it, and
some curious artificial grasses growing round her.
Apparently it was the hour at which, as Mr. Leveson

JUGGERNAUT 79

had said in a conversation she remembered, though it
was more than two years old, when cats turn the dusk
to magic. . . . Lying on a cushion before the fire was
Tapioca's kitten, whose death she had prematurely be-
wailed, whom Walter, by a peremptory visit to the stable
yard, had saved from the bucket, and who, having passed
the stage of kittenhood, was going shortly to have kittens
herself. The cushion on which she at this moment was
lying had been Flo's. Flo, however, had passed through
the gate of apoplexy into another life, in which regenera-
tion, it was to be hoped, she would regain her figure and
youth.

Indeed, the room was full of herself and Walter. There
was a table they had made, by their own unaided efforts,
the Christmas after he had first gone to Germany, when
a week of influenza had kept them house-bound. It had
four legs — ^no less, though it only stood on three — and was
coloured a rich brown by the application of Condy's
fluid, which they were bidden to gargle with, but which
had found a more artistic fulfilment of itself in table-
staining. He — unchivalrously — had said he had caught
influenza from her ; she — offended — had said she caught
it from him, and it was like a boy. In the end they had
agreed to conclude that they had invented it between
them, though Mrs. Morrison never ceased to think it
was Margery's fault. Then there was a portrait of
Walter, rather vague, which Margery had painted, the
frame of which he had carpentered. It had never been
quite decisively established whether she had given him
the picture or he had given her the frame. So they had
signed it together, " Margery- Walter from each other."

There were photographs of him^ too, taken by her, and
of her taken by him, and photographs of them both
taken by Olive. These were chiefly ridiculous — Margery,
by herself, was jumping over the lawn-tennis net ; he,

8o JUGGERNAUT

alone, was doing crochet, with large hands and a puckered
brow. Or, when they appeared together, he was dressed
as a huge girl, and she— this was a charade photograph-
was on her knees proposing to him. Everything told of
silly, unthinking laughter, but now, to her, an irony had
entered. It did not spoil these dear relics ; but they
no longer represented that which was. They were con-
cerned with that which had been.

His letter admitted of no chance of misconstruction.
Often and often he had said, " It will be ripping to see
you again," and resoundingly had Margery echoed her
response. But now he said, "All I really look forward
to is seeing you." And that wish, which he enlarged
upon to the extent of these six pages of writing, roused
no echo of any sort in her heart. She heard it ; she knew
what it meant. But here there was no " Oh, Walter,"
in reply. There was the wail instead, " And he is such
a darling."

That was the excruciating pity of it. If she had not
cared for him so much, it would not be so wounding.
But she cared for him very much, only not like that.
She cared for nobody like that — quite. And yet even if
she had not cared at all, she would have hated the idea
of his suffering. It was so mixed up ... it was delightful
if other people cared for you, but the delight of all delights
was to care for them. That was a larger outlook than
had been hers two years ago ; the knowledge that to care
for others was the important thing — that, and to leave
their caring for you to look after itself. And that idea
had been given her by Walter. He had said that, or
something that necessarily blossomed into that, one
howling day when they sat in a gash of a haystack down
at the farm. Indeed, she owed Walter so much ; it was
not beyond the mark to say that most of the happiness
of her childhood had been derived from him.

JUGGERNAUT 8i

Her rather rueful meditations were interrupted by the
entry of her aunt. It was quite an unusual occurrence for
her to come up to Margery's room, since, if she wanted
to see her, she generally sent for her. Even that did not
happen very often. It was clear, then that, she had some-
thing rather particular to say, and though Mrs. Morrison
did not seem able to approach any subject which could
account for her coming up to the third story, at once,
Margery felt sure that something was coming.

Aunt Aggie looked round the room appreciatively. It
was, as a matter of fact, rather bare, and the furniture
was old.

" It really is very nice for you to have this great room
all to yourself, Margery," she said, " and I am sure, if
the house is very full for Walter's coming of age, you will
not mind it being used as a bedroom."

" Of course not. Aunt Aggie," said she. " I will clear
some of my things away."

" No, there is no need. I can easily say, if I want to
put anybody in it, that it is the old schoolroom. Dear
me, you have a piano here, too, and there is Flo's cushion.
You can practise here all day and disturb nobody. That
must be the piano that was given me on my marriage.
It was always considered a very good one, and the good
ones mellow with age so wonderfully."

Some half of the notes in this mellow piano happened
to be dumb, and the rest were so out of tune that scales
had a curious Oriental effect about them — the intervals
were not known intervals.

" And such comfortable chairs," continued Aunt Aggie,
seating herself in one with a good deal of horsehair pro-
truding in a tuft from the seat, " where you can sit by the
fire and read. I'm sure I have not had a fire for more
than a week in my room."

" I know ; it was careless of me," said Margery. " I lit

6

82 JUGGERNAUT

it without thinking. One does not want a fire on such a

day."

" Pray, do not think I grudge it," said Aunt Aggie
generously. " You may have a fire wherever you Hke,
without asking me. Ah, I see you have a letter from
Walter there. He will be here in an hour. What news
does he give you ? I have not heard from him for
a fortnight."

" Oh, not much/' said Margery, gathering up the close-
written sheets. " I think I told you all the news. It is
several days old ; I was only reading it again."

Apparently Aunt Aggie, though she was seated in the
so comfortable chair by the fire, was a little restless, and,
getting up, she began walking about the room. In a
certain stolid way she was rather observant, and, her steps
leading her to the table in the middle of the room, she
took up a book that lay there.

" Dear me, what a handsome binding !" she said. " Is
it one of the books from the library ? Be sure you put it
back, Margery. A set can so easily be spoiled by losing
one of the volumes. ' The History of Alexandria,' by
— by whom ?"

Margery made a little quick movement in her chair.
" It is by Mr. Leveson," she said. " It is just out.
He very kindly sent it me."

Mrs. Morrison opened it. On the title-page was an
inscription that positively horrified her, and she read it
out. " For Margery Morrison, from her antique friend
the author," she said in a withering voice. Then in a
voice even more withering, a voice that would have blasted
a sapling oak, she added.

" What does this mean, Margery ? Tell me all about
it at once. You have, of course, no business to receive
presents from anybody without my knowing about them.
It is most improper, most indelicate."

JUGGERNAUT 83

" I am sorry you think that," said the girl quietly.
" There is nothing to tell you about it. He merely sent
it me."

" Antique friend," said Mrs. Morrison, " implies a
degree of intimacy."

Margery smiled.

" Dear Aunt Aggie, do you think so ?" she said. " It
really was only a joke. I will tell you. He dined here
— oh, ages ago — the first time I saw him, and afterwards
he asked me if I had not talked him over with Harry
Morland, and did not we agree that he was a nice old
thing ? That is absolutely all."

" And has he written to you ?" demanded Aunt Aggie.
" And you to him ?"

" Yes. I have had several letters from him," said
Margery. " I answered them, of course."

Now, this was in the nature of a thunderclap to Mrs.
Morrison. Since the unsuccessful pursuit of a baronet
some years ago on behalf of Olive, she had settled in her
own mind that the man designed for her daughter was
this fickle (that was the epithet she mentally applied to
him) Mr. Leveson. He was in every way a suitable
match, wealthy, and of good family, and as she had made
up her mind that he was going to propose to Olive (and
be accepted by her, for she would see to that), the pleasant
familiarity which had existed between the two houses
during the autumn and winter — for this year the Levesons
had not gone south — bore the most promising interpre-
tation. " Instead of which," thought Mrs. Morrison now,
" he goes about sending books and letters to Margery."

This discovery, so providentially made, had the effect
of turning her mind for the present off what she had come
to say to Margery, for the girl's conjecture as to the ex-
istence of a mission had been quite correct. But she
could return to that afterwards.

84 JUGGERNAUT

" I am astonished at you, Margery," she said, " but I
intend to try to beUeve that you have been acting in
ignorance."

" In ignorance of what, Aunt Aggie ?" asked Margery.

" You should not pick my words up like that. In
ignorance. I hardly know what to say to you. Of
course this clandestine correspondence must at once cease,
and you must bear in mind that it means nothing more
than that you were a little girl to whom he was being
kind. If you have been stuffing your mind with silly,
false hopes "

Margery flushed.

" Aunt Aggie," she said quickly, " I think you are
assuming a good deal. Mr. Leveson has been very nice
to me, and I like him immensely. I have not been
stuffing my mind with anything. I "

And at that moment Margery stopped abruptly. It
was true that she had not been " stuffing her mind," as
her aunt elegantly put it, with any silly, false hopes, but
even as she disclaimed that, it struck her very suddenly
and completely how full her mind was of thoughts about
him. Ever since that evening when first she had met
him, hardly a day had passed on which he had not been
present, more or less vividly, to her mind. Even as her
eye had been struck at once by the fineness of his delicate
face and the deftness of his hands, so her mind had been
captivated by the fineness and delicacy of his. She in
her girlhood, and on that very subordinate plane on
which she moved in her aunt's house, had had little oppor-
tunity of mixing much with the world, and indeed
such section of it as came to Ballards or Curzon Street
contained nothing resembling this type of the cultivated
yet not bookish student, and her curiosity had been at
once aroused, while such little satisfaction as was granted
it seemed but to whet its appetite. And yet curiosity

JUGGERNAUT 85

very soon ceased to be a word in the least applicable to
her attitude ; curiosity soon passed into a sort of un-
defined but none the less genuine adoration, of the kind
that a girl of healthiest body and mind can have for a
man a decade and a half older than herself. Such a
feeling had grown very quickly ; half a dozen meetings
has sufficed to produce it, and there apparently it had
stayed, mature but barren of further offshoots. She was
thus quite truthful in saying that she had not been
stuffing her mind with hopes ; it is now also probably
intelligible why, having said that, she felt herself unable
to go on, to give her aunt any further reassurance on the
subject. Also she resented, though she tried to stifle
her resentment, this sudden incursion on Aunt Aggie's
part into her own private and secret affairs — affairs
which were almost secret from herself. She knew that
she had certain feelings about Arnold Leveson, but she
felt them, as it were, only striving softly below the surface
of her conscious mind, and she did not allow even herself
to pry into them. It was, therefore, just a shade out-
rageous that Aunt Aggie should come with her spade
and pickaxe like this.

" I see you hesitate," said Aunt Aggie, " and I will do
you the justice, Margery, to say that I believe your
hesitation is due to a very natural feeling of shame now
I point out to you what the real state of things is. It is
from ignorance, as I was saying when you interrupted
me, that you have been allowing yourself to act and feel
as you have been doing. I am glad to be able to put that
interpretation on it, and to know that you now see how
indelicate it is for a girl like yourself to be putting herself
forward."

Margery could not allow this to pass ; a flame of wholly
reasonable anger made her hot.

" You are putting a wrong interpretation on every-

86 JUGGERNAUT

thing," she said quickly. " I am not ashamed of myself,
because I have done nothing to be ashamed of, nor have
I thought anything of which I am ashamed. I have not
put myself forward "

" You must allow those who are older than you, and
have more experience of the world to judge of that," said
Mrs. Morrison.

" Then why have you not warned me, and told me I was
doing so V said the girl.

Mrs. Morrison pointed to the fatal volume.

" Because I was not aware that you were receiving
presents from a man," she said, as if that last dreadful
word was the equivalent of a poisonous serpent. " It is
clear that you must have encouraged him — not that it
means anything to him, for, as I say, you must only regard
him as having been kind to a mere child — or he would
not have written to you and given you presents. He
doesn't send presents to Olive and me."

That was bitterly true ; she wished very much that
he did send presents to Olive, and the truth of it soured
her further.

" I will say nothing about your conduct towards me,"
she went on, " in the lack of gratitude with which you
have met all that I have done for you for years, ever
since I brought you to live with me, and treated you as
my own daughter. We will leave all that out."

Margery ceased at this moment to rebel under the
unfairness and unkindness of Aunt Aggie, simply because
she could not help being amused, almost to the point of
giggling, at the glorious wildness of those random accusa-
tions. For some reason Aunt Aggie wished to lay it on
thick and hot, and, slave to that imperious desire, she
did not care what she said. Had her accusation been
founded on anything, it would have been different ; as it
was, it was as if she accused her of stealing the regalia.

JUGGERNAUT 87

So that thrice-blessed sense of humour which makes more
than tolerable situations which would without it be hard
to bear with equanimity, and extracts from them an
unexpected and fearful joy, buttered, so to speak, the
crust of indignation making it soft and palatable.

Mrs. Morrison's remarks may appear to the reader to
be merely brutal and indefensible, but the judgment
would be a harsh one. There were mitigating circum-
stances. In the first place the fickle Arnold had at least
allowed himself to become aware of Margery's existence,
and Mrs. Morrison was vexed that he should have granted
himself this indulgence. She did not want him to be
aware of anybody's existence except Olive's, and though
she told herself sensibly enough that the interchange of
a letter or two, and the gift of a book on ancient Alex-
andria (which looked, as she glanced through a page or
two of it, remarkably dry and historical) did not suggest
any immediate declaration of devotion, it was tiresome
that Margery's existence should be even known to him
at all, except, perhaps, as the tall girl with rather untidy
hair, who may have given him a cup of tea. And in the
second place, the poor lady felt she wanted either a little
moral indignation, or in any case a sense of Margery's
immense indebtedness to her, to support her (like a
nip of some spiritual stimulant) through that which she
had really come up here to say. She had begun,
it may be remembered, by some useful reflections on the
comfort and convenience of the room, by the indulgence
with regard to fires, and now, having almost persuaded
herself that Margery had behaved very forwardly in
letting her existence be known to the fickle archaeologist,
she felt strengthened to proceed.

She returned to her seat with the book on Alexandria
in her hand, feeling now sufficiently ill-used to retaliate
on the cause of her discomfort.

88 JUGGERNAUT

" We will leave out all that, I repeat," she said, with
emphasis, " because I am not thinking of myself at all,
but only of you. I do not want you to get ridiculous
notions into your head " (this was a brilUant idea) " and
then have to suffer disappointment and reaction. So I
warn you about Mr. Leveson. And, since we are on the
subject, there is another warning that I can give you,
which may be useful."

At this point Margery guessed what this second warn-
ing would be, and the temptation to take the wind out
of her aunt's sails was irresistible. Also there lurked in
her appreciation of the humorous side of this interview
the appreciation of its gro^s injustice.

" Oh, I think I know. Aunt Aggie," she said. " Do
you not want to warn me of the meaninglessness of any
attention that Walter may show me ? You need not
trouble."

Mrs. Morrison gave a sharp glance at her niece, rather
like a peck of the eyes.

" You put it very coarsely, Margery," she said, " but
since

Margery shook her head ; this also could not pass
without some little protest.

" No, I don't put it coarsely. Aunt Aggie," she said,
" I only put it plainly. Please, did you not mean
that ?"

Aunt Aggie felt there was no use in not taking ad-
vantage of the opening that Margery had herself given.

" If you will allow me to put it in my own words," she
said, " I think you will be able to gather what I do mean.
You and Walter, ever since I took you away from the
want and misery which surrounded you, have been great
friends, playing together and having your joint pursuits.
But you must remember that he and you are both grow-
ing up, and your childish intimacy must come to an end."

JUGGERNAUT 89

Margery remembered her own meditations about this.
" It has come to an end, Aunt Aggie," she said quietly.

" I am very pleased to hear it, and I take your word for
it, though I observe he still writes to you. Not that I
wish to know what he says, far from it. If you were to
spread his letter before my eyes, and ask me to read it,
I should instantly avert them," said Mrs. Morrison. " No,
I trust I have no curiosity for confidences that are not
willingly given me."

In spite of this assurance, Margery did not instantly
unfold Walter's letter before her aunt's eyes, in the
certainty of seeing them instantly averted. Instead, she
waited to hear what was coming next. Her aunt seemed
quite determined to put her in the WTong, and since
that was her desire, Margery resigned herself to be put
wherever she chose.

Mrs. Morrison closed her eyes and spoke with great
feeling.

" Walter is my only son," she announced, and waited
for this incredible news to sink in. " He is my only
son, and next week he comes of age, and will step into
the property of which I have been a steward during his
minority. I leave my future to him, for apart from the
little jointure that is secured to me in any case, I have
no legal claim on him whatever. But I trust Walter,
and, as I say, leave my future in his hands entirely.
And as for you, Margery, I can only say that, however
narrow my means may be, there will always be sufficient
for you and Olive and me, though it will not be of the
luxurious description to which you have been accustomed
since you were rescued by me and brought here. You
may perhaps wonder why I say this " (Margery did)
" and to what it leads. It is to this : that Walter steps
into quite a different position from that which he has
hitherto occupied. We are all (except for my little

90 JUGGERNAUT

jointure) dependent on him. He may wish to shut
Ballards up, or let it, in which case we must cheerfully
go to some far humbler place, for though the house in
Curzon Street is mine, it costs a very great deal to keep
up. You would scarcely believe what rates and taxes
amount to !"

Mrs. Morrison then seemed to recollect that though
Margery might have wondered what all this led to, she
had not yet gratified her curiosity, and without further
preamble came to the point.

" Walter will be a very rich man," she said, " and it is
my hope that he will marry suitably. In any case, any
childish intimacy which may have existed between him
and anyone else must come to an end. Young men,
especially Walter, are very kind-hearted, and very easily
led into entanglements. We must all — all, I say — do
our best to clear any possible entanglements from his
path."

Margery got up and stood in front of the fire facing
her aunt.

" I think I understand," she said. " You allude to
me as a possible entanglement for Walter ?"

There was really nothing to do but to say " Yes."
Aunt Aggie said it.

" But, then, about Mr. Leveson," continued Margery.
" Are you warning me against the impossibility of my
marrying him also ? I can't entangle them both, can
I ? Do let's have it plainly, Aunt Aggie. It is so much
better when a thing is being talked out to talk it com-
pletely out, and leave no possible place for misunder-
standing."

" I regard your marrying either of them as a total
impossibility," said Aunt Aggie. "It is not to be
thought of."

" Then why think of it ?" asked Margery.

JUGGERNAUT 91

" To prevent the inevitable disappointment which
you would have to suffer if such a thought came into
your head." said Aunt Aggie.

" I see. That is all, then, is it not ? I think I would
rather not talk about it any more. Shall we go down-
stairs, do you think ? Walter will be here any moment."

Mrs. Morrison gave a moment's consideration to this,
and really thought she had said all she wanted. So she
rose and magnanimously put the " History of Alex-
andria " down on the table again.

" And I am sure I hope you will enjoy reading about
Alexandria," she said, " and the Greeks and Romans.
Since Mr. Leveson has given you the book, there is no
reason why you should not profit by his kindness. I, for
one, do not forbid it, and it would make me feel quite
awkward if I had to return the book to him, and I should
scarcely know what to say. Yes, let us go downstairs."

Walter had been away for six months without coming
home, and since six months at the age of twenty is a very
long space indeed in such boys as hold the seeds of real
manhood within them, it was little wonder that Margery,
no less than his mother, found him a good deal changed.
These had been months of vigorous growth, no less in
mind than in the slim, tall body of the youth who appeared
with broadened shoulders and the firm movements of
manhood, instead of the brisk boyish jerks that had been
characteristic of him. It would convey quite a false
impression to say that he was slow either in mind or
movement ; he was only quiet with the quietness that
comes not of weakness but of strength. In strength
certainly he had enormously developed, and though
Margery a couple of years ago had felt herself older and
more mature than he, she felt now that there was some-
thing lying behind his quietness that would get, though

92 JUGGERNAUT

it did not consciously command, respectful attention.
She had rather expected this : there was at least some-
thing in his late letters to her which found its reason
here.

That night she had no private talk with him, for, as
concession to his long-delayed return, his mother had
adjourned from the drawing-room to the smoking-room
at ten in order to hear " all about it," and had not said
that it was bedtime till eleven, when she was surprised
to see how late it was. Margery, in spite of her own little
heartache at what was coming, would gladly have stayed
longer if there had been a chance of a quiet friendly word
with him — a word of welcome, a word of something to
show how dear he was. Yet, on the other hand, she
shunned it, for — it was awful to feel these things — he
might misunderstand, and think that there was the
crown of his home-coming waiting for him. That he
would ask for his crown she felt no doubt ; a dozen times
his eye had sought hers in a way that she understood ; a
dozen times he had waited for her reply to some question
he asked his mother or Olive. The latter had lately
taken to knitting, and during conversation was largely
absorbed in the counting of stitches. In fact, this evening
Mrs. Morrison had incidentally alluded to Olive's excellent
habit, and to the lack of it in Margery. This was
towards eleven, and, as a matter of fact, she kept an
accurate eye on the time, though subsequently she was
to wonder at the lateness of the hour. She seldom did
things without some microscopical design lying behind
them, and she meant not to allude to the time until it
was so late that Margery, propelled by a sort of irresistible
suction, must certainly follow her at once. But it was
still short of eleven, when suction would be irresistible,
and she gave an account of their doings.

" Dear me, how interesting it all is !" she said, " and

JUGGERNAUT 93

to think of your having lived in all these foreign places
while we have been going on here as usual. I often
imagine that life abroad must be so very widening,
though one never seems to go. Even here we are very
busy ; I am sure I have hardly a moment to myself, and
since Olive has taken to knit crossovers for all the old
women, she has as little time as I. Margery dropped so
many stitches, it was hardly worth while."

" I expect she dropped more than she picked up/' said
Walter, looking at her.

" Walter, how beastly of you !" she exclaimed, in-
stinctively going back to childhood again. " Anyhow,
there's a photograph of you doing crochet "

" I do not think I have seen that," said Mrs. Morrison.

" And one of you jumping the lawn tennis net," said he.

Olive coughed.

" Kntting only requires a little attention," she said.
" I can talk perfectly well, even when I am going round
the corner. Sixteen degrees of frost at Florence, too.
Fancy !"

" You must almost have had skating," said Mrs.
Morrison. " We had skating here, though much of the
time it seemed to me very unsafe, and I did not venture
on. Margery skated."

" I bet you fell in," said Walter, again turning to her
with a brightened eye.

" Of course I did. You don't stop till you fall in."

" Deep ? You never told me. I fell in by the sluice
once, do you remember ?"

Margery gave a little exclamation of dismay, as if he
was in the water now.

" I know," she said. " And Whalley had told us that
there were sucking springs underneath. We thought it
must be an odd sort of spring if it sucked, but it was
dreadful when you quite disappeared. Oh, Walter, I so

54 JUGGERNAUT

nearly jumped in, too, and it would have been such a
lot of use, as you could swim and I could not."

This was childhood still ; it reasserted its force,
although in her heart she knew it to be forceless. But
those days had been such dear days, even though Walter
fell in above the sucking springs. For the moment the
force of them held him too.

" And I came up to find you taking off your
skates," he said, " and firmly throwing our lunch into
the lake."

Margery laughed.

" Yes, I know I did, and to this day I can't think why,"
she said. " I thought, I suppose, that something would
float and you would catch hold of it. But I thought of
jumping in first. I did, indeed."

" Either course," said Ohve lucidly, " would be equally
useless, if Margery could not swim. We had a ladder
and a rope this year, so that in case of anybody falling
in you could lay the ladder along the ice and extend the
rope. The weight of the rescuer would then be dis-
tributed. It is wonderful how people think of such things.
Perhaps I should have been as silly as Margery if I had
been there. One can never tell."

" You might have unravelled your knitting, Olive, and
tied a stone to the end," said Margery, " and sunk it over
the hole."

Olive sighed.

" My knitting always annoys you," she said. " I can
never think why, unless perhaps because it is useful !"

Margery instantly repented of what was only meant
to be taken as lightly as it was said. She told herself
that she ought long ago to have known better than to say
things like this, and she was sorry that Walter laughed.
But, again, how was he to know that things were a little
difficult ?

JUGGERNAUT 95

" Oh, Olive dear," she said, " it doesn't annoy me at
all. And Mrs. Blundell told me only to-day what a
comfort the crossover you gave her was, when she had to
go out to open the gate."

It was then that the clock struck eleven.

" Dear me, how time slips away !" said Mrs. Morrison.
" I had no idea it was so late. I have kept old Blundell
on at the lodge, Walter, though for more than two years
he has seemed to me to be past his work, for it must be
quite that since he kept us waiting there, and I saw him
next morning, I remember, and though I meant to dismiss
him, I let him hang on. And Olive has knitted a crossover
for his wife, who says she is a teetotaller, and I have no
real reason to doubt it, and they both seem respectable.
But you will do as you like, of course. Your father was
too generous, I think, about pensioning, for what one
gets the others all expect. But do not let us talk busi-
ness on the evening of your coming home. Yes, eleven
already. Come, girls, we must go to bed at once. Mar-
gery, will you light our candles, please ? Walter will
want to go to bed, too, after his night journey. You
had better light all four candles."

CHAPTER V

Mrs. Morrison had formed early in life — before, in fact,
she was conscious of forming anything — the habit of
sleeping very well. This, combined with the habit of
never having anything particular to think about (a habit
which she had subsequently cultivated), led her, as a rule,
to pass long, quiet nights of complete unconsciousness.
But to-day she had allowed herself to think rather heavily
in the morning about her coming interview with Margery,
and when they went upstairs with their bedroom candles
that evening, she lapsed into thought again, and remained
awake till she had gone over in her mind what had
occurred, and also formed a plan.

With regard to the first part of her meditations, she
was rather surprised, when she thought over her inter-
view with Margery, to find that nothing had occurred.
During that interview she had formed the impression
(which was true) that she was saying all she meant to
say, but until this moment, when she had put out her
candle after getting into bed, it had not struck her that
it took two to make an interview, and that Margery had
really taken no positive part in it. Mrs. Morrison, in
fact, had delivered an ultimatum, or rather a couple of
ultimata, and Margery (this was what it came to) had
said " Oh." True, she had assented to the fact of her
childish intimacy with Walter being over, but — and
Mrs. Morrison almost sat up in bed as the appalling thought
occurred to her — this concurrence with her ultimatum

96

JUGGERNAUT 97

might conceivably be taken in two senses. Could Margery
be so deceitful as to grant that childish intimacy was
over, meaning that a more mature condition of the affec-
tions had taken its place ? Certainly Walter had paid
her a great deal of attention that evening, and had made
far more of her than there was the slightest call for him
to do. For instance, when Olive wanted her knitting,
it was only usual for Margery to go to fetch it . But Walter
had said, " Nonsense ; I'll get it." And he had got it.
In the old days he would not ; it would have been more
likely for him to allow Margery to fetch something he
wanted. And, again and again, Mrs. Morrison had seen
him looking at Margery. What for, she could not con-
jecture ; she had been so used to consider the girl angular,
awkward, queer, that the habit had destroyed her faculty
of observation. But was Margery angular, and awkward,
and queer ?

Virgil has compared the vagaries of no less a personage
than Dido, Queen of Carthage, when she gave her some-
what savage heart to the pious iEneas, to the swift antics
of a spinning top. The metaphor as applied to so august
a personage under the influence of so august a passion as
love may seem to be a little wanting in dignity, but it
admirably expresses the state of mind into which a thor-
oughly unimaginative woman like Mrs. Morrison may get,
when the rind of her torpidity has been pierced, and she
finds herself confronted by a variety of things which she
wants not to happen. Like the insensate top, wildly
whirling, she butted against a quantity of objects the
stability of which was utterly unknown to her. There
were certain objects around her ; there was Walter, the
real Walter, the young man who felt and willed and
desired, and she had no more idea whether he was a solid
wall against which she might fatally dash herself, or a
mere ninepin which she might easily overset without

7

g8 JUGGERNAUT

even feeling the impact, than she had any idea who or
what Margery was. But her string, so to speak, had
been smartly pulled, and she who had stood quiescent
so long was madly spinning. There was the fickle
archceologist also ; of what texture was he ? There was
Ohve also, but she had less apprehension there ! Olive
probably would do what she was told. But would the
other three ? What were they made of ? She could not
possibly tell ; all her life she had never known anything.
She moved to a certain extent among othei people, but
she was Hke a diver in deep seas (though her agitation
now was like that of a top) surrounded by the iron head-
piece of her own impenetrability. She saw others through
glass ; she touched them with encased fingers ; she did
not even breathe the air that others breathed, but fed her
lungs through the pump that supplied her with puffs of
compressed conventionality.

Toplike again, she had whirled about among these
inscrutable objects. She had whirled up to what she
had thought was a mere ninepin, Margery, this afternoon,
intending to just give her one touch, and then pass on.
But now she was not quite sure whether Margery was not
standing there quite as firmly as before, and whether it
was not herself who had received a knock that sent her
off at a tangent. When she came to think it over, Margery
had given no promise or guarantee of any kind with regard
either to Walter or I\Ir. Leveson. She had allowed that
the days of childish intimacy with Walter were over, but
as poor Mrs. Morrison saw now several hours later, that
might mean practicall}' an37thing, while she knew no more
about Margery's feeling for Mr. Leveson than she did
before she had gone humming up to that figure. Margery
had told her nothing, and such knowledge as she had
picked up, namely, that he had given her niece a book,
and had written to her, was far from reassuring. It was

JUGGERNAUT 99

one thing to assure Margery that all this meant nothing
at all ; it was quite another to assure herself on the point.
And at this fatal moment she formed a plan. Without
complete knowledge of all the plans that have ever been
formed, it would be rash to call this the most infelicitous
possible, but it would be understating the case only to call
it very infelicitous indeed. But her imagination was like
a chicken that has just been hatched. Hitherto she had
been bounded by her own shell. Now the wide world
extended on every side. And the plan was to go to see
Mrs. Leveson, and test her. Poor top ; it provoked
collisions, it set out to find them.

All this spinning and whirling and collision was gratuitous
activity — at any rate, it might all have been saved if
Mrs. Morrison had before now practised a quieter and
more tender movement. Love, which unlocks every door,
and is the master-key that opens all hearts, would so
easily and inevitably have told her all she did not know,
and made clear to her the nature of those objects among
which she was now so impotently whirling. And yet,
though the wards of that key are so simple, there is no
artificer cunning enough to fashion one that shall do its
work. Those who own it not must break burglariously
into the hearts they wish to enter, and when they think
they have come there^ they never find the treasure they
contain, and miss all that is of value. For, we must
suppose, some blind kind of madness seizes them, so that
they load themselves with all those things which are
any man's, and leave untouched — for to them they are
invisible — the pearls and the rubies and all of which the
price is beyond rubies.

It was so, at any rate, with poor Mrs. Morrison ; she
had failed (in that she had never tried) to enter the hearts
of those round her by the royal door, and now sought

100 JUGGERNAUT

to enter as a house-breaker, and, if necessary, as a heart-
breaker. It was, therefore, only to be expected, though
she did not know this, that she would find laid out for
her nothing that was worth her search. Yet for all these
years ^Margery had stood with her heart-key in her hand,
offering it her,

Mrs. Morrison had tried Margery, so to speak, had
broken in, and when afterwards she counted her spoils,
she found she had taken nothing worth carrjdng away.
She was not deterred, however, and so formed the very
infehcitous plan of raiding ■Mrs. Leveson. This she pro-
posed to do without delay on the next afternoon. The
morning she spent mainly with Walter, still burglarious
in spirit, but in other respects talking to him in the most
open possible manner about the things which obviously
concerned him and her. Occasionally she made a grab.
" I have purposely left half a dozen rooms vacant," she
said, " so that you could ask any personal friends of yours
to your coming of age. Let me see, there are six rooms
here — no, seven, because Margery — er — suggested my
using her sitting-room as a guest - room for that week.
It is very comfortable, I am sure, and when I went upstairs
to see her yesterday afternoon — I often go — she was
toasting away in front of the fire, though the day was
quite warm. Olive has no sitting-room of her own."

" The library is pretty comfortable," said Walter guile-
lessly.

" Yes, dear. I am sure I don't want Olive to be un-
comfortable, though no doubt she will have to go else-
where when you and Mr. Saunders have your talk "

" j\Ir. Saunders ?" asked Walter.

" Yes, the solicitor. There will be documents to sign,
I should not wonder, and deeds to be read to you. Prob-
ably it will take half the day. No doubt Olive will be
out if it is fine ; if not, she must come and sit in my room,

JUGGERNAUT iot

and I dare say I can contrive a ^vriting-table for her, if
she wants to answer letters. She will be the last to make
a disturbance."

Then came a grab.

" I'm sure Margery has been looking forward to your
coming home as much as any of us," she said. " How
do you think she looks ? Dear child, shall I ever forget
how plain and peaked she was when she first came to
us ! I see little difference in Margery."

Walter had begun to take notice. This was a bur-
glarious entry, and he left none of his treasures about.

" I don't think most people would consider Margery
very plain," he said. " And she is not peaked, do you
think ? I thought she looked very well last night."

" It would be a wonder if she wasn't well," said his
mother, " with nothing to worry her from morning till
evening, or from January to December. And whatever
your arrangements are, Walter, ]\Iargery wdll iind a clean,
decent home with me. I told her so yesterday."

This was business again, and Walter attended much
less closely. But his frank, wholesome face expressed
a little surprise.

" I don't quite understand," he said. " I have no
intention of making changes. Did you think I was
going to turn you and Olive and Margery out of the
house ?"

" You have given me no hint of any of your intentions,
Walter," observed his mother.

" No ; I haven't got any. I had better talk it over
with Mr. Saunders, hadn't I ? I remember you once told
me you had a jointure of three thousand a year."

The unfortunate spinning-top took a sudden lurch in
this direction.

" That is quite true," said Mrs. Morrison, " but what
with rates and taxes — not to mention income-tax, which

102 JUGGERNAUT

goes up by leaps and bounds, though what Mr. Asquith
does with it all passes my comprehension, and little
enough to show for it, I should be puzzled to keep the
Curzon Street house open and perhaps a little place in
the country, with Margery growing up and Olive not being
married, though I dare say any day something may happen
to either of them."

From this superb discursiveness (Mrs. Morrison had
literally rather enjoyed a somewhat sleepless night, and
her mind was more dishevelled than usual) Walter detached
a subject or two.

" I don't think income-tax has anything to do with
your income, mother," he said, " because I fancy you enjoy
it free of tax. Not that that is of any importance. What
I had proposed to do after next week was — well, was
nothing at all. I have got this examination for the diplo-
matic service ahead of me, and, if I pass, and get some
post, of course, I shall be abroad, and have my work to
do. I had never contemplated making any change in
your way of life. I should not let this house, or do any-
thing of that kind. There is plenty of money, is there
not ? I mean, you have all lived here and in Curzon
Street quite comfortably. I like the thought of the house
going on as usual. And if I don't pass, I shall have to go
on studying for another year or another two years. I
have no intention, because I shall be, well, rich, of doing
nothing. I wanted to go into this service, and nothing
has happened to change my views. It is absurd for me
to settle down, and hunt, and dance, and play the fool,
because I can afford to do so. One must try to have a
career of some sort, at least I think so. I don't want to
stuff away in the House of Commons ; I don't want to
be a soldier. I settled — oh, ages ago — three years ago
nearly — to try to get into diplomacy. I suppose I shall
want a little more money than before. But I can do that

JUGGERNAUT 103

without upsetting you. I want everything to go on just
as before."

Walter dehvered this long speech as if it was not a
speech at all, as indeed it was not. The sentences were
jerked out, and punctuated by little movements, now of
a long leg, now of a flicked cigarette ash. And the spirit
that dictated it was of a charming youthful modesty,
a reluctance to be thrust into dictatorship, an effacement
of himself. But towards the end he got a little restless,
and by the time he had finished he was standing up.

" Of course, if I married," he said, " I should have to
think again. Even in that case I should propose to go
on in the service, if I get in. I "

Mrs. Morrison suddenly interrupted.

" You seem to have thought it all out," she said.

" No, not at all," said he. " I have thought nothing
out. Ah, that is not quite the case. I have thought one
thing out. It is this. I don't quite like Margery having
no settled allowance. What I certainly shall do next
week is to settle something on her. Isn't that the
phrase — settle ?"

The question was prompted by his mother's expression
of face. She looked as if she was going to sneeze. She
appeared to overcome that tendency and answered him.

" I never heard of anything so — so unheard of," she
said, making as far as was known the solitary paradox
of her life. " Margery is quite comfortable ; all her bills
are paid by me, and what more can anybody want than
to have aU bills paid ? And she has never ordered any-
thing unreasonable yet. If you made her any allowance
at all, even a penny a year, it would look " — Mrs.
Morrison gathered herself together for this astounding
feat of imagination — " it would look as if I had said that
Margery was extravagant !"

Walter shifted from one foot to the other. He had

104 JUGGERNAUT

raised a vehemence which he did not in the least under
stand. It seemed to him best to turn it off with a Httle
joke.

He laughed.

" To allow Margery a penny a year would certainly
not make an accusation of extravagance against her,"

he said.

Mrs. Morrison rustled m her chair, trying to recover
her equanimity. Somehow the idea of an independent
Margery went against her grain. Margery was synony-
mous with the idea of dependence and her own generosity.
She could not think of them apart. With her no
mental readjustment was possible without violence. Her
thoughts, as has been mentioned, pursued their way down
polished ruts and channels, and it required a side-slip of
a terrifying kind to jolt them out of these well-worn
ways.

" I do not think that Margery would thank you for
making any such provision for her," she said. " She
has been accustomed to rely entirely on what I do for her,
and it would seem strange to her to have things different.
No, she would not thank you."

Walter looked quietly, candidly, at his mother. His
face, as became his years, was intensely youthful, his
instinct, as became his years also, was manly, not
boyish.

" I don't want her to thank me," he said. " You
have looked after Margery up till now. Now it is my
business to do so."

Then suddenly — as became his years — he blushed.
" After all that is only my plan," he said. " As you say,
anything may happen to Margery, or you, or Olive, or

me."

Mrs. Morrison remembered her sleepless (or partially
sleepless) night, and, turning her attention for the

JUGGERNAUT 105

moment completely to herself, was startled by the phrase.
The liveliest emotion she ever experienced was a horror
of being ill, and Walter's dreadful suggestion of anything
" happening " to her evoked that spectre.

" I don't look ill, do I ?" she asked, the question being
not so inconsequent as it sounded.

" Dear me, no, the picture of health, I am glad to say,"
remarked Walter placidly. " You don't feel unwell, do
you ?"

" No, dear, but you speak so lightly of things happening
to me," said she. " Well, Margery will be glad to know,
I am sure, that you are not thinking of letting Ballards,
where she has been so happy for so long. And now I
must go and see the cook. I usually see her at eleven,
and it is already half-past. She will think it strange if
I put it off any longer, though I am sure I should enjoy
sitting here and talking to you all the morning."

Mrs. Morrison wanted a private interview that after-
noon with Mrs. Leveson, and so she settled that Olive,
who usually accompanied her on her drives, had a cold,
and had better not risk the danger of being caught in a
shower far away from home. She thus set out alone,
with her Japanese pug, who, a victim to her stupefying
intimacy, now seldom woke up except to be fed. The
two fat horses as well as the coachman had been duly
got rid of, the lodge gates were opened to her without
pause, by a young woman more up to her work than poor
old Mrs. Blundell, and she swept along the roads in her
motor at a brisker pace than when she paid her first call
on the Levesons. She had settled the main lines of her
interview during the night (adding a little this morning),
and, though interviews are apt to develop weird diver-
gencies from our preconceived notions of them, owing
to the victim not always saying exactly what we have
designed for him, such fiasco could hardly be expected

io6 JUGGERNAUT

here, since Mrs. Leveson was not required to say anything
whatever. She had merely got to hsten to what was said
to her. By the kindly co-operation of Providence, she
was in, while Arnold was out, and she suggested a stroll
through the garden. Mrs. Morrison instantly found that
she was a little cold and cramped with her drive, and
thought it would be very pleasant ; indeed, she would
have suggested it. And since she had come on business
she got to work without loss of time.

" Yes, I'm sure your garden is looking beautiful," she
said, " but what an array of men it must take to keep it
in such order ! And what supervision, too, on your part !
Often when I go out after breakfast to look round with
our head man, it is lunch-time before I know where I am.
I hope Walter will take that off my hands while he is at
home, though dear Olive of course has helped me a great
deal, and she has a wonderful head for names. Often I
can only say, ' Some of the yellow things we had last
spring, Sadicow ' — such an odd name : my husband used
to wonder whether it was Scandinavian — but Olive
always knows whether I mean daffodils or not."

Mrs. Leveson smiled.

" I always mean daffodils, so to speak," she said.
" There is magic about them."

But Mrs. Morrison had no intention of letting the
conversation drift away to daffodils. She jerked it
firmly back, pulling it on to its haunches. She did not
mean to risk another interruption either, and so left out
all her full stops.

" Olive is so fond of them, too," she said, " but Olive is
fond of everything beautiful. She had a little cold to-
day, and I with difficulty persuaded her to stop at home
and mind it. But I assure you it was no easy matter
when she knew where my drive was going to take me.
She is so fond of this place, and I remember her anxiety

JUGGERNAUT 107

when we heard that it had been taken, and her wonder
as to whether we should get to be friends with the new-
comers. How odd that seems to look back on now, for
as she was saying the other day it is as if we had been
friends all our lives. She does not make friends very
easily either, she is a little exacting and fastidious ; I
have often told her so. But this time, dear Mrs. Leveson,
you can guess whether I had to tell her she was too
fastidious ! I assure you scarcely a week passes without
her wondering how Mr. Arnold's book on the ancient
Egyptians is getting on. How interesting all — all that
period must be."

That was better : though the speaker sometimes
thought that Mrs. Leveson was not very clever, she could
hardly fail to grasp the trend of these remarks. And
she did not fail ; there was no reason for anxiety on this
score.

" Arnold has finished his book," she observed ; " indeed,
he finished it many weeks ago, and it has been published
a fortnight now."

" And to think of me not having seen it, nor Olive
either," exclaimed Mrs. Morrison. " Dear child, how
excited she will be ! There will be a telegram to the
publisher, or I am much mistaken. And what will he
turn his attention to next ? I shall never be forgiven
unless I learn all about it. More of the Egyptians will
it be, do you think, or will he tell us about the ancient
Greeks or Romans ? Or will he take a rest, and enjoy
himself ? I'm sure we can give him capital lawn tennis
or golf any day he cares to come over, now Walter is at
home again. He and Olive would make a great match,
I am sure, against Walter and Margery."

Quite suddenly Mrs. Leveson found herself beheving
hardly a word of what her companion was saying.
Exactly why she felt that, it would be hard to say, except

io8 JUGGERNAUT

that it seemed obvious. She did not believe that Olive
had a cold, or that she asked after Arnold's work, or that
she promised to read the book, or that she made these
gratifying remarks — she so fastidious — about her neigh-
bours. None of this seemed the least characteristic of
Olive, but, on the other hand it seemed vitally charac-
teristic of any not very wise mother making plans. They
were not bad, as plans ; the act of stupendous folly con-
sisted in mentioning them. She would have been very
sorry had she believed these things to be true, because
she had more than an inkling of what was going on in
Arnold's mind. But she had no chance to say any-
thing, for Mrs. Morrison continued without pause.
What followed was superfluous, because Mrs. Leveson
completely saw what she meant already, but it was im-
possible to tell her that.

" Such a joy to mC; of course, is Walter's home-
coming," she said ; " but I shall be busier than ever now,
for it is the part of a mother, is it not, to look after her
son as much as after her daughter ? Even more, perhaps,
as young men are so easily led away. I want him to
marry, oh, quite, quite soon, for I believe in early
marriages, since I was married myself out of the school-
room almost ; and how happy I was, to be sure ! Do
you not wish the same for Mr. Arnold ? Is it not high time
he settled down and married ? Indeed, I am almost
vexed with him when I think of the years he gives to the
ancient Egyptians, though I am sure nothing could be
more interesting, instead of getting some nice girl to be
his wife, and help him in his work, provided their tastes
were similar. Dear me, yes, I have thought so a thousand
times."

Mrs. Morrison, it may be noticed, was really saying the
same thing over and over again in different words, for
fear that her companion should fail to grasp her sense,

JUGGERNAUT 109

for, as has been seen, she had no very high opinion of
Mrs, Leveson's abiUties. Her estimate of anybody's
abiHty, indeed, was chiefly measured by the frequency
with which he said things which as soon as spoken she
imagined she had often thought of, though she had not
troubled to put them into words. But Mrs. Leveson
seldom gave utterance to these gems ; her conversation
(when she was permitted to have any) seemed to Mrs.
Morrison to be singularly commonplace, and she supposed
that Arnold must have inherited his brains from his
father, though his money would come from his mother's
side as well. However, brains and money were both
very nice things.

" Yes, like attracts like," said Mrs. Leveson, with a
certain dryness.

That was the kind of thing ; anybody could say that.
What followed was unintelligible, and so merited hardly
more attention.

" But one's fellow-men are so curious, are they not ?"
continued Mrs. Leveson. " And in nothing more curious
than in the question of selection. They say matches are
made in heaven, and in that case they are only arranged
on earth. And arrangement is such an inferior achieve-
ment compared to creation."

This was more cryptic than usual. It was, in fact, in-
tended to confuse, for Mrs. Leveson had had about enough
repetition. She felt some very slight resentment at
being supposed to be so stupid that it was necessary to say
things over again so very frequently, and, by distracting
Mrs. Morrison's mind, it seemed to her that she might
get something said which she wanted to hear. In
intention, her remark was made almost as one may speak
to a person who is talking in sleep ; a little quiet dis-
traction might induce her to ramble on about something
else.

no JUGGERNAUT

" Yes, I am sure that is so," said Mrs. Morrison
hurriedly. " And I have often thought so myself.
After all, one can only arrange, and I am sure I have
had plenty of that lately, with Walter coming home.
So thoughtful he is, too ; I declare he thinks of every-
body, even of poor Margery. Young men are so chival-
rous, are they not ?"

" Ah, how is Margery ?" asked Mrs. Leveson.

" Margery is always well," said Mrs. Morrison. " I
often wish I had half her health. Such a sad childhood,
too, though, of course, we don't speak of it. It nearly
broke my poor husband's heart — I mean his brother's
marriage. A dreadful thing when your brother marries
nobody knows whom, though heaven forbid I should
speak evil of the dead. What a fatal thing prettiness
is, is it not ? It so often goes with fraOty, though one
hopes not quite always."

Mrs. Morrison, in spite of her imperturbable flow of
meaningless language, had to pause for a moment. She
wanted, above all things, to convey an idea of the general
impossibility of anybody marrying Margery, but she was
moderately averse to telling downright lies. So she
continued, in sentences that were not quite untrue.
Each sentence, that is to say, did not contain a falsehood,
nor even did any one sentence contain a whole one. But
that was all that could be said on the score of veracity.
Her conscience, also, surprising as it may sound, acquitted
her, for she told herself that she was not spoiling any
sort of chance Margery might have, since she did; not
believe that Margery had any. Nobody can spoil! the
non-existent. But in the next two or three minutes the
eternal justice must have sent her to hell.

" Such a sad story," she observed, " though, as I say,
we never speak of it, and I have brought up Margery
never to think of her mother. I am so deeply thankful

JUGGERNAUT iii

that I was able to take the place of the one she lost.
Quite a common actress, and on the music-hall stage, or
something of the kind ; the front row of them, you know,
with legs. I don't say anything against her, but that
was the sort of person she was. Poor Leonard, my
Leonard, as I say, was quite heart-broken, but Norman
was so susceptible and headstrong. He said he was so
divinely happy, too ; yes, the two brothers had a dreadful
quarrel, and Norman even let himself say that he hoped
that my Leonard might be as happy in his marriage
(that was me) as he was in his. Of course, I forgive and
forget all that. And then after Norman's death, what
must his wife do but go back to the stage again, sadly
aged, of course, and much inferior to what even she was
before. Poor Margery ; sometimes I look at her with
dread for fear of seeing some low trait which she inherited
from her mother coming out in her. She is but a child
yet, and perhaps it is still full early to look for it. Of
course, I only look for it in order to nip it in the bud — if,
indeed, you can nip hereditary tendencies."

Mrs. Morrison was so much absorbed in her brilliant
story that she did not notice a very distinct change that
had come over her companion's face. Still less, of
course, did she notice the far more distinct change that
had come over her companion's mind. Mrs. Leveson's
eyes, usually kind and patient, were smouldering ; her
mind was more than smouldering — it was in a blaze.

" Pray tell me," she said quietly, " do you know any-
thing against Margery's mother ? She was an actress,
you tell me ; but I suppose anybody can be an actress,
if she has the gift, and yet be respectable, in the old
sense, I mean, worthy of your respect or mine, or even
Mrs. Grundy's."

" Of course, one does not listen to mere stories "

began Mrs. Morrison.

112 JUGGERNAUT

" But were there any mere stories to listen to ?" asked
the other.

" I cannot say that any positively reached me," said
Mrs. Morrison, still quite unconscious of an unfavourable
atmosphere. " But you know what everybody says
when a man of very good family is so foolish as to marry
into that class. And then her going back to the stage
again ; so much aged ! It is as if a converted infidel
relapsed again. I think it so fortunate that I was able
to rescue Margery before her mind was tainted. I dare
say her mother was kind to her ; I believe that class have
a sort of general good-humour, and are not cruel, of
course, or anything of that kind. I make no accusation ;
I always want to see the best in everybody, as I am sure
we all should. And when Margery is rather rough and
romping, I try not to think that it is that dreadful strain
of blood asserting itself. It is better to suppose that it
is only an exuberance of childhood. Children must not
be judged as if they were grown up. What a philosophy
of life I could write, if I had the time ! It is a wonderful
thing to have children, and observe their ways."

This was a premeditated peroration. It had been
fashioned in the waking hours of the night before, and
rounded everything up in a manner that seemed entirely
satisfactory. It seemed satisfactory, at any rate, to its
inventor, at the moment of its inception, and it was
almost as satisfactory now. At the conclusion, Mrs.
Morrison drew a long breath and heaved a deep sigh.

" How they all grow up round one !" she said, inspired
by an afterthought.

Mrs. Leveson looked once at the horizon and once at
her companion. Her eyes smouldered no longer, nor did
her mind blaze. She had been angry, it is true, at the
suspicion that Mrs. Morrison was, if not telling lies,
telling the truth dressed up in the clothes of lies, but now

JUGGERNAUT 113

that she felt quite certain that this was the case, it no
longer seemed to be a thing worthy of indignation ; it
was worthy (if of anything) of pity. For the whole was
such a tragic failure, as things were. Mrs. Morrison had
so utterly overdone it. Her point was so obvious, and
it was no less obvious that she was calling feeble fiction
(as in the case of Olive) to aid it, and feeble false im-
pressions (as in the case of Margery) to serve the same end.
Walter, too, was evidently an anxiety to her, and Walter
to her own mind, was an anxiety also. She hoped, with
almost an ecstasy of maternal longing, that Margery was
not giving any real cause of anxiety to her aunt in his
regard. She liked Walter, for it was quite impossible
to help liking that dear, handsome boy, and she hoped
that Margery did not feel towards him as she told herself
she would certainly have done, when she was eighteen.
Mrs. Morrison's pictures, in fact, of Arnold and Olive
playing against Walter and Margery did not at all appeal
to her. One side of that match she knew was impossible ;
she longed to know that the other was impossible also.
But she was by now perfectly aware that Mrs. Morrison
was full of information that bore no direct relationship
to truth, and yet . . . and yet she herself might be able to
disentangle the copious strands.

" How pleased Margery must be to get Walter back,"
she said tentatively. " So much tennis and golf for her."

But Mrs. Morrison had finished ; she had discussed all
she wanted to discuss with Arnold's mother ; or, in other
words, she had said all she meant to say. She thought
Mrs. Leveson understood by now.

" Walter has but little time for games now," she said,
though but lately she had welcomed Arnold to any amount
of them, " what with his examination coming on so soon.
Sometimes I wonder whether poor Margery had not better
go out into the world, and be a governess or something

8

114 JUGGERNAUT

useful. She is an excellent German scholar, and plays the
piano delightfully. She is very independent, too, and
would like to make her own way. But I should be sorry
to lose her."

Mrs. Leveson understood this also, and gathered quite
correctly that there was supposed to be some danger of
Walter wishing to marry Margery. At any rate, the
speech implied that Mrs. Morrison did not wish the two
to be much together. Nor for that matter did she herself.
She did not consider it necessary to tell Mrs. Morrison
this, nor her reason for it, because she did not want her
to have a fit.

It is a pathetic thing to record, but the truth is that
Mrs. Morrison buzzed home again after tea in excellent
spirits, fully believing that she had put in quite a quantity
of fine work. Indeed, she permitted herself to indulge
in a great many complacent reflections on her own powers
as a diplomatist, and foresaw a brilliant career for Walter
if he only proved to have inherited them. Diplomacy,
even of this very elementary kind, was something of a
new accomplishment to her, and she supposed that it
must be easier than she had hitherto imagined, or that
she was cleverer than she had ever given herself credit for.
By degrees she inclined more and more to the second of
these alternatives, and felt that the task that perhaps
lay before her now, of cooking Margery's goose, so to
speak, with regard to Walter, was an operation well
within her culinary powers. She could almost smell the
rich savour of the roasting bird. It was a happy thought,
that of sending Margery into the world as a governess,
and it required hardly any effort of the imagination to
persuade herself, in the course of a few minutes, that she
would miss the girl very much, but that the step would
be for her good. It was true that she had often planned
a different future for Margery, in which, till the end of

JUGGERNAUT 115

time, she would be companion to herself, but she quickly
saw now that such was a selfish scheme, and one framed
only to minister to her own comfort. Perhaps it might
come off later on, when Walter was married, and no
doubt Olive also, but for the present how much more
advantageous for Margery to practise her independence
and her excellent German. The Morlands, she knew,
wanted a governess for the younger children, and Harry
Morland, Walter's friend, was already quite a friend of
Margery's. That would make it so pleasant for her.
And even if he, after the hot-headed manner of youth,
which, in Mrs. Morrison's idea, made every young man
want to marry any young woman, fell in love with
Margery, it would be Mrs. Morland's part to nip that little
flower in the bud. For herself, she had no wish to stand
in Margery's way, and would be delighted to give her such
a chance. Then for a moment she thought of Olive.
No ; Harry was too young for Olive, and not quite up
to the mark which her mother had planned for her. But
what a chance for Margery ! That would be far better
than the village schoolmaster. But it really was a great
sacrifice to part with Margery. She must get that wrench
over as soon as possible, and though she hardly ever
wrote letters in the evening, she determined to write
to Mrs. Morland before dinner.

Meantime, at home, Olive having been told she had a
cold, sneezed once or twice, and after her mother's
departure proceeded with her knitting to the library,
with the laudable intention of finishing a crossover before
tea. She had suggested, though in quite a casual manner,
that Margery might come and read to her all the after-
noon, but Walter had objected to that, and had claimed
her companionship for the ramble they always took
together on his return from school or abroad, to visit
stable and farmyard, and other places of interest where

ii6 JUGGERNAUT

there were birds and animals. Up till now that custom
had never been omitted, and it was but an ordinary
request he made to-day. He proposed it serenely and
cheerfully, as a matter of routine which Olive had for-
gotten. But Margery, for the iirst time, was reluctant.

" Won't it do to-morrow, Walter," she said, " if Ohve
is lonely ? One doesn't like to leave her all by herself."

" Would you rather not come ?" he asked.

Margery knew that her reluctance was only dictated
by a temporizing impulse, and abandoned it.

" No, I would much sooner come," she said quickly.

It was a tall, wholesome young couple that set out on
that day of warm wind and fleecy clouds, when all things
told of spring to the buds and to birds and animals of
mating-time. The gale of the evening before had alto-
gether passed, and of its passage nothing was left but the
vigour and cleanliness of earth and sky, washed by the
rain, renewed by the riotous wind. In front of them as
they set out up the grass slope before the house, lay the
knoll and rabbit-warren. To right and left the beech-
woods were clothed in the dim purple of spring, and the
clean branches scrubbed and dried by the gale stood
vigorous and upright against the sky.

"Oh, they've been so nicely shampooed," said Margery,
" and their hair is all on end. Mine will be too, unless
I put on a hat. But need I, do you think ? We shall
only go to the farm and stables and into the woods."

He looked at her a moment, trying, honestly trying to
recapture for a little the unconscious zest of childhood,
when to be alive on a spring day was enough for anybody,
be he boy or girl. And such spring days were indissolubly
bound up in his mind with a wild-haired ecstatic Margery,
who raced him up hill and down, and sought for the shy
violets that hid so successfully underneath their varnished

JUGGERNAUT 117

leaves, or followed, wide-eyed and breathless, the antics
of the squirrels and wild things of the wood. For the
sake of old times, even though the present held so much
more, he would have liked to recapture that. But it was
only make-believe ; he might as well have hoped to shut
in his hands the glinting lights that came filtering through
the budding branches of the beeches. It was only with
an effort, with an exercise of memory, that he could recall
the enchantment of those days, which, while they were
his, held only unconscious enchantment. Now he could
recall it, be conscious of it, and the very fact of that
showed that they were over.

" It's a new idea for you to have a hat when we go in
the woods," he said. " Or do you want one ?"

" Not I. We've got a tremendous lot to see. It's so
long since you were here. Let's begin with the woods.
They have felled that copse of hazel by the lake — the
primroses have simply descended in showers. There were
none before. But now it is one mass of them, and soon
it will be blue with wild hyacinths. Isn't it nice of
Nature ? We cut down her pretty trees, and instead of
being angry, she lays down a new carpet at once, to make
it gay till the trees grow again."

But Margery was making her effort no less than he,
and for her it was harder. She longed, knowing her own
heart, much more eagerly than he did, for the past days
and years to return to them, so that they should have no
thought except for the birds and beasts and flowers.
And she knew, though as yet no word of other things had
passed between them, how utterly childhood had passed
away, and felt, with a keenness of regret that was beyond
him, the envy of the eternal youth of Nature, who each
year makes all things young again. The primroses this
year were just like the primroses of other years, the
birches were no less youthful, or, if they were a year older,

ii8 JUGGERNAUT

a year taller, the magic of spring gave back their childhood
to them on those April days, when the same effervescence
of returning sap and promise of May tingled through their
branches. It might be that the scuttling squirrels that
to-day whisked and scurried at their approach, were the
babies of last year, or that the chuckling thrushes, that
flitted in and out of the rhododendron bushes, were bul
in the egg when last she and Walter took the spring walk
of his homecoming, but to the eye all was as it had been
twelve months ago. It was she who was different,
and he.

But for a little they were both successful in overcoming
not the shadow but the sunshine of years that were bring-
ing them to maturity, and they played at old days.
Yet even thus maturity stepped in ; he, shyly, but with
all the fury of his budding manhood longed for the silly
pretence to break down, though with lip service he kept
it up to suit her mood, while she, dreading what was
coming, liking him with that affection which conversa-
tionalists have agreed to call sisterly, but which is nothing
of the sort, desperately delayed, though she knew the
futility of her effort, the conclusion which was already
quite foregone. She more than guessed that from his
letters, and her own heart taught her the answer, the
interpretation. For she was not a child now ; she could
more than imagine what was going on in him, from what
she dimly felt herself. But in that feeling he had no part ;
it was hers only, so far as she knew. But she knew that
if another, not he, had been taking the spring-walk with
her, she would have waited for pretences to break down,
even as he did.

And thus, not at cross-purposes, but with dreadful
divergence of yearning, they visited old places again,
the copse of hazel-wood by the lake, the lake itself
with the shattered reflections of trees in it, the stone-

JUGGERNAUT 119

sluice and the mysterious sucking-springs, the thought
of which had caused Margery so tremendous an anguish
on the day that the ice gave way, and exposed Walter
to their fathomless influence. Close by was the thorn-
bush where one year a pair of goldfinches had nested,
and even as they passed it now the glint of an unusual
wing made the memory to start into their minds again,
so that they climbed the hill, covered with the brown
of dead bracken in eager reminiscences of the day when
the nest was full of gentle gaping young, unfledged and
helpless, a construction of big eye and open mouth. Till
this year goldfinches had not been seen again, but to-day
there was no doubt as to the identity of that delightful
visi:or.

Walter was walking in front of Margery as they went
up the steep brae, and he had reached the top some six
yards before her. And there he waited while she climbed
the last few steps. He, like her, was bareheaded, and the
wind that caught them on the top, and blew her hair
down over her forehead, made his short, black curls stand
up straight. He was flushed with the steepness of the
ascent; and stood with head bent towards her, and the
sweet smell of his rough home-spun suit was carried to
her open nostril. And as she got near him, she looked
up, and saw that his face was lit with more than the glow
of exercise ; he waited for her, he was expectant of her
coming. And, seeing that, she looked to her steps again,
for the pebbles of the gravel slope were slippery and
yielded beneath her feet.

" Here, take my hand, Margery," he said.

It was idle and useless not to do so, and with one hand
in his, one on the rough sleeve of his coat, she gained
the top.

" Thanks, Walter," she said, " it is slippery "

And then she stopped. For his other hand closed over

120 JUGGERNAUT

hers, and very quietly, very strongly he pulled her up
to him.

" Margery," he said, " you didn't kiss me when I came
home yesterday. Will you kiss me now ? It will
mean "

Margery raised an imploring face to his.

" Oh, Walter, dear Walter, please don't !" she said.

But he seemed not to have heard. Roughly and
irresistibly, as far as strength was concerned, he pulled
her to him and kissed her.

" It's that," he said. " I love you — don't you see ?"

And then he saw.

" I beg your pardon, Margery," he said. " It was
damnable of me. I didn't think."

And he let her go.

" Sorry," he said. " I'm most awfully sorry. I
behaved like a cad !"

For a moment Margery had felt angry. The moment
after she could not have conceived that such a thought
as anger had been hers. Her friend, the best that a girl
could have, was standing by her, the boy who had been
the idol and the sun of her childhood. It was Walter,
in fact ; there were no words that expressed him so well
as his sheer name.

Something inside Margery's throat swelled, swelled,
swelled. She had thought over this which she knew was
coming, but her worst forebodings fell so far short of the
actual truth of it that she seemed to be facing a position
she had never imagined. All the values were changed
now that this happened. She had not known how much
she liked him, and, till he kissed her like that, she had not
had the remotest idea how far she was from loving him.
And for reply she just sat down on the brown bracken
and began to cry, burying her face from him, learning
by this cruel contrast, not with hate, but with affection.

JUGGERNAUT 121

what love meant. Walter was no less dear ; he was more
dear, and that somehow separated him the farther.

He did not touch her or come near to her, but felt as
if each sob raised a blister in his own throat. He looked
down on the shining lake, on the brown hillside up which
they had climbed, at the little folded shoots of bracken
which were pushing up through the debris of the autumn.
At last he spoke.

" Margery, do stop crying," he said. " Shall I go
home ?"

" No, you darling !" said she. " P-please don't. I — I
can't bear it. Just wait a minute. I will stop being
such a fool soon. And — and then I'll explain. Oh, sit
down. Sit by me here, if you don't mind. And don't
say you're sorry. I can't bear it. It's me."

Margery indicated where he was to sit with an errant
hand. What he had said, what he had done revealed
him to her less than it revealed her to herself. She
knew now, in a flash, cruel and wise, what she had been
only dimly conscious of, knew that her heart was not her
own to give. Otherwise, she must have let him take her,
all that she knew of herself, take her, teach her, and turn
her deep and eager affection for him into love.

Her crying ceased very quickly, for she was not crying
for herself, but for him, and if she could help him at all
or comfort him, it was not by making a goose of herself
like this. So like a wise little woman she stopped.

" Oh, Walter dear, I am so sorry," she said, " and I
feel such a brute. Thank you ever, ever so much for
loving me. But though it is so dear of you, please try
not to. You know how I like you, and what jolly times
we have always had. Won't, won't that do ? Do you
want the other so much ?"

Walter looked at her a moment in silence, his lip
quivering, and Margery remembered how she had only

122 JUGGERNAUT

seen that once before, when he found a dog that he had
lost caught in a trap.

" It isn't the question of what I want," he said, " it
is the question of what I am. I am just that, your lover.
Can you give me any hope ? I'll wait just as long as
you like."

" I know you would, dear," said she, " and, oh, how
gladly I would wait if I thought that it would do any good.
If you want anything of that sort, of course, we will
wait ; I will tell you in a month, or a week, or six months,
when you choose."

Walter was silent again.

" But you think, you feel sure it will do no good ?"
he asked at length.

" Yes, I feel sure," said Margery below her breath.

Walter did not ask what is commonly the question of
one rejected, as to whether there was somebody else.
If Margery did not choose to tell him that, it seemed to
him very unfair that he should take advantage of her
distress for him, her passionate desire (for he made no
doubt of that) to help him in any possible way, to ask her
that. If there was no one else she would surely, for his
comfort, tell him so, while if there was, and she did not
wish to tell him, it was no business of his. So he did not
even ask her how it was that she was sure.

But the corresponding train of thought had been going
on in her mind, and in a moment she spoke again.

" There is someone else," she said, " though he doesn't
know it, poor wretch."

Walter could not help smiling ; this was so comically
characteristic of Margery.

" Pity you can't tell him," he said. " But I don't
think I can offer to do it for you. There are limits. Or
shall I make an effort ?"

There was something heartrending to Margery in that

JUGGERNAUT 123

very small joke, which nearly made her cry again. He
was so gentle and gallant, and even now was thinking
of himself not at all, but of her completely and entirely.
And as he spoke, he leaned back on the dry brown
bracken and turned a little away from her.

" Thanks for telling me," he said. " And I hope, I
do really, that the poor wretch, whoever he is, will soon
know. And that — that you will get your heart's desire.
I want that more than anything, I think. And look here,
Margery, I'm not going to make an ass of myself, or
bother you. I'm going to take what has happened
standing up, and being cheerful and natural. I think
a man must be too feeble for words if he does anything
else. That's all, I think. Let's get on."

CHAPTER VI

It was with scarcely concealed satisfaction that Mrs.
Leveson saw that Arnold, after the completion of his book
on Alexandria, showed but tepid inclination to set to work
again on some fresh subject of research, and it afforded
her no less pleasure now that the book was published to
observe how little he seemed to care about the shoals
of highly eulogistic Press notices which poured in, or
about the many letters from learned professors who
were so complimentary on the subject of his acute and
illuminating work. Even the detection of a glaring
misprint after the book was published seemed to worry
him but little, though an error of no greater magnitude
in a mere contribution to an archaeological journal a year
or two before had made him take the gloomiest view of
himself as a scholar who had pretensions towards accuracy.
In other respects, also, he was changed, even to her eye,
which saw him constantly day after day, and so would be
less likely to note change but rather to get accustomed
to it before it was consciously noted, and his regularity
of habits, which hitherto had been, so she would have
guessed, invincible and invulnerable, showed strange and
unsuspected harness-joints. He no longer even, while
his book was still in hand, sat down to his work at fixed
and stated hours, during which he was as unapproach-
able as the High Priest when he went to the Holy of Holies,
but would sit with her after breakfast talking on topics
that hitherto had been practically without existence for

124

JUGGERNAUT 125

him, and letting the chiming of the sacred hour pass un-
noticed. On other days he occasionally even gave up the
morning's work altogether, and rode or loitered with her
in the garden, though it is but fair to him to add that such
lapses were usually followed by contrition and a day of
uninterrupted work with doubling of his usual hours. Yet
she was quite without anxiety for him on the ground of
health, for he was evidently extremely well, and his
slackening of interest (for it was no less than that) in the
work which had hitherto absorbed him, could not be put
down to any loss of vitality in the functions of his brain,
for side by side with it had come a marked quickening
of interest in other things. So, wise woman as she was
(though Mrs. Morrison had formed but a poor estimate of
her mental grasp), she observed him silently and gleefully,
not letting him suspect that he was observed, and followed
and suited herself to his changing mood as carefully as
she had suited herself to the previous regularity of his
orderly life.

The eye that thus quietly and narrowly observed him
was maternal; kindly, and humorous, and she noted these
things as she might note the gradual recovery of someone
she loved from a chronic complaint, which, though in
no sense fatal, or deadly, was crippling and limiting.
His recovery, naturally enough, was not a uniform march,
but to the professional and womanly eye it seemed that
he was clearly on the mend, and one of the most essenti-
ally promising s3nTiptoms had been his sending of his book
to Margery. This had to be elaborately explained to his
mother, and carefully accounted for.

" The publishers have sent me no fewer than a dozen
copieS;" he said, " and I have had copies sent already
to everybody who I thought would care to have one,
and the desire for information, however full; on ancient
Alexandria is as rare as the taste for caviare. Is there

126 JUGGERNAUT

nobody in the neighbourhood I can send one to, as one
sends game ? Yet I cannot imagine Mrs. Morrison sitting
down to the study of Ptolemies !"

His mother had not the smallest intention of suggesting
the name which she believed would follow. It would be
far better for him to come out with it himself.

" Frankly, I can't either," she said. " She would say,
* How it takes one back,' as she did when you told her
the age of your Tanagras."

He was on to this instantly.

" Ah, you've hit it," he said. " My Tanagra shall have
a copy."

Now that disposed of only one copy out of twelve, but
she was not consulted further as to the fate of his other
eleven, though she was to hear a little more about this
one. He came back in a moment with a copy in his hand.

" It is rather a dull, dingy cover," he said. " One
does not like to give a book so shabbily dressed. Would
you not have it decently bound ?"

" Certainly, I should," said she. "It is a very nice
thought of yours. Margery will be delighted."

But he still lingered.

" Shall I write in it, and say whom it is from ?" he
asked. " ' From the author '? Would that do ?"

Mrs. Leveson was really guileful over this.

" I should write ' From her antique friend,' " she said.
" That will carry on the little joke you had with her."

She saw him flush a little, and for one half second he
looked at himself in the big mirror over the fireplace.
She could have kissed him for doing that ; he was getting
on wonderfully.

In the ten days that had elapsed between the sending
of this gift to Margery, and the visit of Mrs. Morrison
lately recorded, he had scarcely alluded to the recipient
at all, but, on the other hand, he had done practically

JUGGERNAUT 127

no work whatever, and was idle, absent in manner, and
preoccupied, which was all to the good. Again and again
the impulse to bustle him, to assure him that he was on
the right track, was almost irresistible ; she longed to
give him some psychic stimulant which should hurry on
the rather sluggish functions of his heart. But she re-
sisted this ; it was his way, his nature to go to work quietly
and deliberately, making sure of each step, testing each
stone, so that he should be in no danger of rearing an
insecure superstructure. Yet, when the business on
hand was no work of research, but a more fiery chase, it
was hard to be patient with his deliberation. Still, it
rendered him, as has been said, idle and preoccupied, and
she possessed her soul in patience, though ardently desiring
that he should not possess his.

But this evening, after dinner, he opened the subject — ■
or rather, the subject being opened, like a door, in the
course of conversation, he walked in, instead of staying
outside,

" Any callers this afternoon ?" he asked.

" Yes, Mrs, Morrison."

" Ah, I am glad I was not at home ! It is so hard to
say one is certain about anything, but I feel nearly sure
I do not like her."

His mother laughed.

" I made up my mind for certain this afternoon," she
said. " The answer is in the negative,"

" Did she come alone ?" he asked,

" Yes ; Olive had a cold, she told me, and Margery, as
we know, does not go out driving if she can possibly
avoid it. Besides, Walter has come home ; she will be
in the seventh heaven,"

" I like Walter," remarked Arnold, with an air of great
fairness. "He is tremendously young without being a
cub."

128 JUGGERNAUT

" Oh, everyone is devoted to him/' said his mother
cheerfully. " It is impossible to help it. What a good-
looking boy, too."

And then Arnold walked in.

" Is Margery very fond of him ?" he asked. " I don't
ask without a reason."

" Ah, my dear^ let us have your reason, then," said she.

" I suppose it will be a great surprise to you," he said,
and she nailed an admirable surprise to her face, " but
the fact is, I have been thinking such a lot about Margery
lately. I don't really believe I have thought about any-
thing else. She has stuck in my mind — stuck fast. It
is singular."

She leaned forward, upsetting her needlework-table.
But she let it lie, and Arnold apparently did not
notice the collapse. She hated that last sentence, " it
is singular," with all the quiet determination of her
nature, but the positive part of his speech quite out-
weighed that.

" Singular ?" she said. " It is nothing of the kind.
It is entirely natural. I want you to think of her till she
blots the whole world out. My dear, the Egyptians are
all very well, but turn your attention, as indeed you have
been doing, to an English girl for a change — a girl, too,
as good as gold and as sweet as sunshine."

" Yes, that is she," said Arnold, making the most
promising speech of his life.

" Then go to her, my dear. I wish you could go now,
and tell her so."

" Ah ! but it is impossible. I am her antique friend.
That is all. And there's Walter ; probably she is in love
with him. How dreadfully upsetting it all is : I can think
of nothing else."

Mrs. Leveson was not a violent woman, but she could
have boxed his ears for this timorous speech.

JUGGERNAUT 129

" Oh, if you are going to her with apologies," she said
smartly, " for wanting to say anything, and with hopes
that she is not in love with Walter, and fears that you are
too old, you might as well stop at home. That isn't the
language a girl loves to listen to."

He turned quietly towards her.

" Don't be impatient with me, dear mother," he said.
" I want to be encouraged, you see."

" Yes, my darling, and it is just that which makes me
so impatient. You mustn't want encouraging. You
must make your own courage. It makes itself, if you
only will allow it to. And, dear, when you come and
tell me that Margery will be your wife, you will give me a
greater joy than ever yet. And that is a great deal,
because we have always been mother and son."

She said no more, being wise enough to stop after she
had spoken her mind, and did not load him with repeated
expressions of her pleasure. For repetition is often worse
than vain ; it often undoes what has been well said. Not
that she flattered herself she had said anything well ;
she had but spoken her thought, and even to let her mind
go back to Mrs. Morrison's venomous communications of
this afternoon or to speak of them to Arnold was like
a descent into fog from some sunlit mountain air. She
knew Margery, and that was enough for her ; she cared
not at all for what the girl's parentage was. The all-
important thing was that her parents had given birth to
this delicious girl.

It was late, and presently after she went upstairs to
bed, leaving Arnold committing Jthe wild irregularity of
smoking a cigarette in the drawing-room. As he had
said, Margery had stuck in his mind — stuck fast — and
though, with a streak of academic reflection which his
mother found rather trying, he thought this a singular
thing, he was, in his manner, enraptured with the oddity.

9

130 JUGGERNAUT

When first he saw her at that dull decorous table of her
aunt's, two years ago, he had been struck by the youthful
grace of her, which had reminded him of his beloved
Tanagra figurines, and for a while she was no more than
that. Then, still in scholarly fashion, fantastically and
artificially in the manner of the Theocritan poets, he
had let his mind play with the idea ; had in imagination
decked her in Greek robe, given her a palm-leaf fan to
play with, or thought of her standing, like the statue of
which he had a cast, on tiptoe, ready for the race, with
tunic shortened to her knee and hair braided closely to
her head. Then one day, not so long after, he had again
met her in the woods in the course of an afternoon ride.
She was hatless, and was running down a grass path with
delicious lightness and agility of motion ; three or four
dogs raced beside her, and as she ran she was laughing
and talking to them. Then suddenly she saw him,
dropped to a sedater pace, and spoke to him shyly,
radiantly. That meeting he recollected well, for it had
supplied him with another image — Margery as Atalanta,
the maiden of the woods, who gave no thought to men
and their mysterious ways, but lived pure and cold apart
with her hounds and her fleetness of foot, in the sunlight
and shade of the virgin forests, a thing sexless and
beautiful.

So far she had no real existence for him ; he but re-
incarnated in her old and lovely legends ; she was no
more than a lay figure on which he hung the Greek
draperies, a model which he made to act the myths and
legends which he loved, and which were indeed more real
to him than the tangible world in which he lived. And
then, very slowly, very quietly, the change began ; it was
as if she refused to take part in his archaeological fancies
any more, but insisted on being merely herself, the girl
who actually did live half a dozen miles away, who went

JUGGERNAUT 131

out with real dogs and ran down the noiseless alleys of
the wood — who, as he gradually learned, was palpitating
with eager, tender life, alert and active. She emerged
from the sunlit mists of antiquity and legend in which
it had pleased him to place her, and became herself.

At first Arnold had been chilled and disappointed by
this change. If she was not a charming embodiment of
those gay and gracious figures, an Atalanta, a Theocritan
shepherdess, a maiden of Tanagra, she was nothing to him.
He turned his back on her, so to speak. But she did not
go away, and so before very long he looked at her again.
She had come to dwell in his mind, not as an embodiment
of his fancy, but as herself. Often and often he had
resented this ; it had seemed to him an unwarrantable
invasion of his privacy ; she got between him and his
work ; a sentence which he was copying out would
suddenly repeat itself in his brain, said in Margery's
voice, and Margery's laugh would make itself audible to
his inward ear. It was a charming laugh, but he wanted
to get on with his work, and he could not if she laughed
at him. And then — for the poor fellow had lived all his
life in books, and so at first his emotions, when they
began to awake, had to use bookish ways of communi-
cating with him — he invented a new game, and had
imaginary dialogues, no longer with Atalanta and the
Tanagra figure, but with Margery herself. They were
cast in Theocritan mould, and she sang the praises of her
dogs and animals while he, in answering sentences, bade
her look at the more exquisite shape of his Attic vase,
the stencilled figures on his Eretrian lekythus, the noble
beauty of the nymph's head on his Syracusan coin. It
was still all very academic, but the step of progression
was that he had admitted her, in her own person, to the
study of the things he loved. Then came a further step,
paramount in importance, for Margery came over to

132 JUGGERNAUT

lunch one day, riding with Walter, and it became sud-
denly evident that there was no need to make these
imaginary and unreal dialogues, for the thing became real.
After lunch he had taken them both into his room, and
Margery's eyes grew bright with the beauty he showed
them, and even a little moist when he told her how they
buried the figures with the dead, and that lying by the
dry dusty bones you would find these joyful images, that
in a child's grave you would find models of toys, or of
birds and beasts. She was in tune with it all ; she loved
the lovely things, listened hanging on his words, looked
with bright, tender eyes at what he showed her, whis-
pered almost instead of speaking.

" Oh, Walter, look !" she said once ; " they put them
in the graves. Oh, poor dead people with their lovely
things !" And when she went away that day after a
prolonged inspection, " I simply can't thank you," she
had said. " It's silly for me to try." And to his own
surprise almost, he had found himself saying : " You can
thank me if you like, and that is by coming again."

At that she had flushed a little, and looked at him
sh3dy, eagerly.

" Oh, may I ? May I really ?" she said.

And after this he resented her reality no longer ; he
resigned himself to its coming between him and his work,
for it was better to have it even there than not have it
at all. He wanted it.

All this passed through his mind as he sat and smoked
this unusual cigarette at this unusual hour, and quietly
made up his mind as to what he should do. He would
ride over to-morrow and ask her to be his wife. That
was resolved. And then he permitted himself a flight of
fancy. He imagined himself sitting at his study table,
his books round him, his thoughts flowing freely and
busily, with some subtle piece of observation, verified and

JUGGERNAUT 133

reverified ready to be distilled from the point of his pen.
And at that moment, so it seemed to him, the door
opened, and he smiled to himself, knowing who had
opened it. He did not look up, and Margery came across
the room and sat on the arm of his chair, not speaking
or interrupting, but letting her hand lie on his shoulder,
while she followed what he was writing. And then soon
after she spoke.

" Darling, that is quite delightful !" she seemed to say.
" It is perfectly expressed, too. No, not one word more ;
you shall come out."

That seemed to him perfectly ideal. It is just a
question, however, whether his mother would have
thought it so.

Disturbed nights seemed to be somewhat in vogue just
now, for, as we have seen, even Mrs. Morrison's profound
and matchless repose had been broken the night befor e by
the formation of her Machiavellian but happily futile
schemes, though to-night, in proud mistaken conscious-
ness of her diplomatic successes, she slept like a top,
instead of behaving like one. But Walter and Margery
both lay long awake, he lying very quiet and thinking
entirely of her, she restless and tossing, thinking often
and thinking with aching heart of him, but with further
causes for unrest than that.

Her heart ached — ached for him. That scene on the
high gravelly ridge above the lake had been bad enough
when it occurred, but now it seemed more intolerably
cruel. By the pitiless irony of fate, it was she, who was
so very fond of him, who was selected to cause him this
bitter unhappiness. It seemed to her that there was
nothing else in the world that Walter could have asked
which she would have refused him, which she would not
have given him gladly, exultantly, delighted that she

134 JUGGERNAUT

could give him anything, who all these years had given
her so much. But the one thing she could not give him
was herself, for that was given elsewhere. The owner
(poor wretch; as she had said that afternoon) did not know
she was his, and there was no chance at all of that em-
barrassing knowledge ever reaching him. Indeed, at the
mere thought of her preposterous secret being known to
him, Margery grew hot and flushed, and shifted her
uneasy head.

She was not ashamed of having this secret : it had been
put into her heart from outside, without her choice. She
seemed to have no control over the matter, or, now, any
responsibility for it, except that it must never be betrayed.
And, though for several months she had been conscious
of it, it had flamed and flowered this afternoon only, and
that when Walter declared his love for her. Then it
flowered with flame, consuming, adorning her.

For a little she held it close, examining it, poring over
it. From the very first, when Arnold had made those
penetrating remarks about cats, she had seen that there
was something finished, delicate, exquisite about him that
she had never seen in man or woman yet. At first (and
she smiled at the thought now) she had wondered whether
it was real, whether it was no more than mere surface-
manner. Then gradually, partly by observation, partly
by intuitive construction, she perceived, and perceived
truly, that the finished manner, the crisp neatness of his
speech, the sentences, each of which could be written in a
book exactly as he spoke them, were faithful though
superficial indications of the mind that moved behind and
directed them. In comparison with him, Aunt Aggie,
with her streams of commonplace, Olive, with her golf
and her crochet, above all, she herself, with her rude
rough vitality, were bumpkins and clodhoppers. And as
she came to know him better, the beautiful lucidity and

JUGGERNAUT 135

perception of him grew ever more wonderful. Dull history
grew iridescent with romance, dead things lived, dry bones
came together, and wonderful figures flowered out of the
dim shadowy past of the world, awakened by his touch.

And the very aloofness of him, that quality which some-
how encircled him like a ring of ice or fire, attracted her
also. The ordinary rough-and-tumble of life seemed not
to come near him. Unconsciously and instinctively
(again Margery was right in not attributing " pose " to
him), he moved apart, and though he mingled with other
people, spoke their language, ate their dinners, he was to
her like some wonderful prince, who chooses to be incognito,
and claims neither throne nor obeisances. And, perhaps,
it was for that very reason in part that Margery came with
her shy, secret incense. He had not asked it of her ;
therefore she gave it.

Margery, who lay warm in bed, was not there at all
really. Romance, that enchanted land which lies every-
where, and is built upon by every slum street, every
tailor's shop, every grocery, every railway-station, and re-
quires only to be recognised in order to be real, had opened
its golden gates for her, and she had passed through into
true fairyland. Then suddenly — for such is the agitating
cutsom of these parts — she was rudely and roughly hustled
outside again, and the golden gate slammed in her face.
In other words, her tiresome mind said to her : " What is
to happen now ?"

A very bad half-hour was to happen in any case. She
was back in bed, tired and horribly wide awake, with
heart aching for Walter, and aching a little also for herself.
Indeed, if Walter claimed and so lavishly received her pity
and regret, she was no less worthy of it. He loved, she
loved, and — and nothing was going to happen to either of
them. They had to bear it, and, if possible, grin. But
the thought that they had to bear it together, here under

136 JUGGERNAUT

the same roof, meeting all day and every day, became a
future intolerable to contemplate. And all the time, even
if they were successful in simulating a show of normal
behaviour, in spite of Walter's secret that lay so heavy
on her heart also, she had to bear the burden of her
romance alone, to be for ever trespassing into enchanted
places, and for ever being rudely thrust out.

And then the idea that had occurred to Aunt Aggie that
afternoon occurred also to Margery. Mrs. Morland,
calling here not long before, had said she was wanting a
governess for young children, and had in her comfortable
motherly way turned to Margery.

" I think I shall carry you off, dear," she said, " and
shut you into the coal-cellar till you promise to look after
Gladys and Edith. They love you."

The thing, no doubt, had been but a joke, but as she
tossed and turned j\Iargery wondered if it were possible
that serious fact underlay it. It was much easier to
imagine herself looking after those two children than living
on here. It was hard for her. it was hard for Walter. She
thought she could make him see that. The difficulty
would be to convey such a new idea to Aunt Aggie
without letting her know the reason for it.

So she tossed and turned. But Aunt Aggie didn't ; she
had already made up her mind, \mtten her letter, and
intended to speak to Margery next morning. She had
even made a note on her engagement-book : " Margery,
10.30." That would give her time to see the cook, as
usual, at eleven.

All evening and late into the night the same difficulty
had been turning round and round in Walter's head. He
knew well how sorry Margery was, and it was not reason-
able to expect her to go on meeting him hourly, daily
here. They would naturally be thrown much together,
and he could guess from the way the evening had passed

JUGGERNAUT 137

how great a strain would be continually put on her.
Nor would it be easy for him ; he saw that also. And he,
too, made his plan, to go away as soon as his birthday
celebrations were over, and, on the plea of wanting to
work, stop in London till his examination came on in a
month's time. That would tide over the early and most
difficult weeks. He felt, too, that he could not yet —
urJess it was necessary, or Margery wished it — tell his
mother what had happened. There was no hand in the
world which he could trust to touch that wound at
present.

Unlike Margery, he lay very quiet, and with wide-open
eyes watched the shadow of the window-bars cast by the
moonlight outside fade as the moon sank in its setting
behind the cedar that whispered from time to time as the
night breeze stirred in its branches. Last night, even as
now, he lay long awake, tingling with the thought that
before another night came he would have told Margery.
And he had let himself do more than hope what her
answer would be ; he had let himself, though wondering at
so gracious a miracle, believe that she would take him.
Who the other man was, he did not trouble to think, he
did not care to know. A young man differently made
from him might have felt he could not rest till he knew, and
could give name to his rival. But it was not so with him ;
some fellow luckier than he had won ]\Iargery's heart, and
— well, there was no more to be said. He hoped he was a
nice chap. But that he must be, since Margery loved
him.

And then the first faint chirrupings of waking birds
sounded outside ; tremulous tentative notes. Night was
not over yet, it was still dark, and no token of coming day
yet was seen in the velvet sky, making the stars pale.
The birds, after that little whisper of song, would sleep
again till there came the new light from the east. And,

138 JUGGERNAUT

tired out, hungry and empty of his heart's desire, yet
without any bitterness, he slept too, head on hand,
dreamlessly.

Margery found her task next morning unexpectedly and
unaccountably simple. There had been no need for Aunt
Aggie to send for her at half-past ten, since Margery had
herself asked if she might speak to her, and since Mrs.
Morrison had not quite made up her mind as to the easiest
way to open the subject with the girl, she listened to what
Margery had got to say first. There might be some peg
therein on which she could hang the subject of her own
discourse. If not, she would just have to drive a nail in
anywhere. Thus Margery's communication saved her the
trouble of that exertion.

" I'm afraid you will think it very odd of me. Aunt
Aggie," the girl began, " but — but I want to go away,
please. Please don't think that I do not appreciate all
your goodness to me, everybody's goodness, but I should
so like to do something on my own account — be a
governess. Please don't think it horrid of me."

Mrs. Morrison did not quite heave a sigh of relief, but
this was certainly a very pleasant coincidence. As it was
now quite certain that she would accomplish her own
plans without difficulty, since her plan was Margery's, she
could easily afford to be critical and surprised.

" Dear me, what next ?" she said. " What does this all
mean, Margery ? It is a very strange wish of yours."

" Yes, I know it sounds strange," said the girl, " but
you have always told me I am very independent and
restless. I only can't bear that you should think me
ungrateful or unloving "

Margery's eyes suddenly filled with tears. She was
tired with her bad night, and overwrought with the strain
of all those hours.

" It isn't that, dear Aunt Aggie," she said. " I have

JUGGERNAUT 139

been awfully happy, thanks to you and Olive and
Walter "

Her voice choked a little over this, but immediately she
pulled herself together again.

" And it isn't for always," she went on. " If you will
let me come back after a few months, I can't tell you how
glad I should be. But I want a — a change, I think.
The other day only, do you remember, Mrs. Morland said
she was looking out for a governess ; she said, probably
half joking, to me that she wished I would come. I don't
know if she meant it, but I do. I should like to go there
for a bit. I will go as soon as possible, if you don't
mind."

Now the instant departure of Margery was exactly what
Mrs. Morrison wished. She had felt fairly certain that,
somehow or other, she could manage her departure, but
she had been unable, on her own account, to see how it
could be made immediate. But now Margery had, though
quite unaccountably, asked for that. She was divided
between curiosity as to the reason of it and joyful acquies-
cence. It would be very nice if she could satisfy the one
without abandoning the other. But if only — for her own
sake — she had read and remembered the admirable fables
of iEsop, and, in particular, that highly instructive one,
in which a dog with a succulent real chop in his mouth
sees in a pool the image of another dog with a succulent
unreal chop in his mouth, and tries to snatch it ! The one
was substance, the other but a shadow, a reflection. It was
so with her ; the chop of Margery's immediate departure
was already in her mouth ; her letter already written.
But then curiosity, a mere shadow, a mere reflection
caused her to delay the devouring of what she had.

" I cannot see any reason for your so suddenly leaving
us, Margery," she said, " and the servants, and Walter,
and Olive would think it so odd. Mind, I do not oppose

140 JUGGERNAUT

your going ; your heart seems so set on it that, though I
might very justly feel hurt and grieved that you wanted
to go, I do not say that I should forbid it. But this is a
very sudden desire, and I think perhaps it is my duty to
hear more of the reason "

Margery interrupted.

" Dear Aunt Aggie," she said, "it is just what I have
told you. I want to go. I should like, above all things,
to go to Mrs. Morland's, and unless I arrange at once she
may get somebody else. I thought if you would just
write a line to her, it might help me. I am so glad you
don't object to my going, that you agree it may be a good
thing. So why not at onc^ ?"

Curiosity was still unsatisfied, and Mrs. Morrison made
what can be called a little sacrifice on the altar of Un-
veracity to gratify it.

" I do not see how I could write to her this morning,"
she said, " as I must see the cook at eleven, and, after
that, I have to fit in different arrangements for the day."
(This, resolved into fact, meant that she would go out in
the motor either at half-past two or three.) " But I
might perhaps manage to write this evening when I come
in, if you convince me that there is real reason for settling
anything quickly."

(The foolish woman ! The insensate spinning-top !)

" But, dear Aunt Aggie," she said, " it is such a little
matter. You agree that it would not be bad that I should
go ; I only want to go now. I can't explain ; there is
nothing to explain that — that can be explained."

There came a smart rap at the door. It was a rule in
the house that Mrs. Morrison was not to be disturbed in
the morning, and Walter, Olive, whoever it was that
wished to see her, always made this knuckle-apology.
And Walter entered. Mrs. Morrison had already begun
to answer.

JUGGERNAUT 141

But the whole thing is so very sudden," she said.
And though I do not wish to stand in your way-

Come in ! Oh, it is you, Walter ! — yet I think I ought
to have some reason to give Mrs. Morland. Here is
Walter now "

She ran into the very jaws of destruction, even though
Margery gave yet another warning. But it was like some
unlocalised foghorn ; she did not know where it came
from.

" Ah, don't ask him," she said.

Mrs. Morrison was not accustomed to pay any attention
to Margery's remarks, and she paid none now.

" Here is a surprise for us all, Walter," she said — " here
is Margery wanting to go away and be a governess. I
think she shows a very proper spirit in wishing to be use-
ful, and earn her bread instead of everything being
supplied for her. But such a hurry about anything I
have never heard. And only yesterday I said how
pleased I should be if Mr. Leveson would come over, at
any time, and have a game of lawn-tennis ; he and Olive,
against you and Margery. I am sure it would make a
capital match. But if Margery goes away at once —
though I do not say that I am opposed to it — who is to
make the four ? I have not played for ever so long, and
I should spoil your game. You and I would have no
chance against Olive and Mr. Leveson. They would play
so well together, for he is so nimble and she is so sure "

And then the poor lady felt she had lost her head.
There was something going on — it was in the air — that she
knew nothing of. These two quiet, silent young people
confused her. They seemed almost unconscious of her
presence, and she was accustomed to greater consideration.
And at the moment her curiosity flared up, while she did
not lose hold on the accomplishment of what she wanted.

" I don't lay any stress on that," she said, " because,

142 JUGGERNAUT

of course, Margery could not have kno\Mi that I had
arranged those pleasant games of lawn-tennis, which I
enjoy watching above all things, and since she wishes to go
away and leave us, go she shall, and wild horses should
not keep her here now. I do not say that I think she has
been ungrateful foi all that I have done for her, because I
do not think that, and if I thought it, I should say it.
She shall go this very afternoon — j\Irs. IMorland will have
received my letter by now, and I will follow it up by a
telegram "

Mrs. Morrison suddenly saw she had made an error.
She recollected, she was afraid, that she had said that
such a letter could not be written till the evening, since
she was so busy. Slightly perturbed by this, she looked
up and caught Margery's eye, and wondered whether
Margery was going to force her, by some inconsiderate
question, to reconcile these singular statements. But
Margery put no such question ; she seemed unconscious of
any inconsistency ; she seemed to encourage, by her look,
any further statements, so long as the trend of the talk
was in favour of her scheme. But perhaps she had not
noticed this inconsistency, so thought Mrs. Morrison.
Margery was always rather stupid. Walter looked stupid,
too, this morning. No doubt he was thinking about his
birthday celebrations, and wondering if the fireworks
would come off. Of course, April was of uncertain
weather ; it might be a wet night, and if rockets only
fizzled. . . . She cannoned off a hundred objects,
wildly spinning, but the boy and the girl still sat
undisturbed.

" A telegram," she repeated, with great distinctness.
" I wish we had the telephone in the house, for it makes
things so much easier. But I repeat that, though I offer
no opposition, I think it very odd for Margery to be in
such a hurry. I dare say she has good reasons. Only I

JUGGERNAUT 143

cannot conjecture what they are, though perhaps it is
very stupid of me."

The words were spoken with a deeply sarcastic inten-
tion. Everybody knew she was not stupid, at heart.
Such an outrageous idea had never occurred to her, and
she waited for a murmur of dissent. None came. In-
stead, what came to her was misgiving of a dreadful kind.

There had been silence when she finished her prattling
speech. Neither Walter nor Margery seemed to be
attending to her. Each looked at the other, quite gravely.
And then Walter shook his head, still looking at Margery.
After that he looked at his mother and spoke.

" It's odd/' he said. " Because I came to see you in
order to suggest that I should go away. I want to do
some more work before I go in for my exam. I can't do
it here ; I should mean to, but I should always be riding
and playing golf in spite of my intentions. So I shall go
away after Tuesday, and stop in town for a month. And
since you have asked me what I think about Margery's
plan, I think it is dreadful nonsense."

He looked back at Margery.

" Awful nonsense, Margery !" he repeated. " What's
the point ?"

Into Mrs. Morrison's dull brain there slowly filtered a
New Thought. It was dreadfully subversive ; it implied
a kind of unperceived earthquake. The earth, in fact,
might conceivably have quaked, and she had not noticed
it till it was all over. But, however painful it might be
to her, she felt she was obliged to go into this, though it
was like descent into a crater of a volcano not yet extinct.

" It is very strange," she said. " Both you and
Margery want to go away at the same moment. It may
be a mere coincidence. I hope it is. I know that
coincidences are sometimes very striking and curious."

Walter looked at Margery again, and Margery at

144 JUGGERNAUT

Walter. On Margery's part there was an almost imper-
ceptible shake of her head, on Walter's an affirmative
gesture. He still looked at her, after he had made it.

And then he turned to his mother again.

" I asked Margery to marry me," he said, " and she
refused. It was yesterday, yesterday afternoon. It will
be uncomfortable for both of us to stay here together
just now. That was her thought, I know, though she
told me nothing of it, and I knew it only because it
was mme. We don't want to talk about it, either of us,
to anybody else."

Mrs. Morrison rose to the occasion ; she was almost
sublime.

" Upon my word, Margery," she said. " These are
pretty goings on ! Is this all the return I get for having
lavished luxury and everything you could possibly wish
for on you, all these years, that you must inveigle Walter
into "

But Margery had had enough, and rose with a little
shrug of her shoulders.

" Aunt Aggie," she said, " ^'■ou have no right to say
that to me. It is not true ; but sometimes you seem not
to know truth from lies."

Walter rose too.

" I think you had better apologise for saying that,
mother," he said quietly.

" Oh, what does it matter ?" said Margery. " Walter,
I must talk to you about this. We will settle it together,
Aunt Aggie."

But Walter did not move. His pleasant face looked
very far from pleasant just then ; it was set, frowning,
determined. He shook his head.

" No ; it does matter," he said. " My mother has
said an outrageous thing to you. That must be retracted,
and at once. It concerns me."

JUGGERNAUT 145

" Oh, as if I cared," said Margery.

Mr. Morrison was not at all accustomed to being treated
like this. Walter's insistence was little to her taste, but
somehow Margery's quiet contempt was harder to swallow.
For contempt, of that there was no doubt, was at the root
of Margery's unassumed indifference as to whether she
apologised or not. But like many domineering people she
had nothing to back her supremacy up, when it was thus
stubbornly challenged, and she fully and volubly broke
down.

" Well, I am sure this is a great fuss to make about
nothing," she exclaimed, " and I think it is but natural
in me to express surprise when I find my only son has
been making love all the time to his first cousin, a marriage
of which I never approve, and to which I, for one, would
never give my consent, and me with my head full of
schemes for his happiness. But, of course, if I have said
anything to hurt Margery's feelings, I am very sorry for
it, especially when she has behaved properly in refusing,
though I am sure, if this sort of conduct is honouring your
father and mother, we had all have better been Turks or
infidels. And it's all very upsetting, what with your
coming-of-age, Walter, next week, and wishing to go
away immediately afterwards. Still, I had no desire to
hurt Margery's feelings, though no one seems to have
any consideration for mine."

" Oh, it's all right. Aunt Aggie," said the girl.

As an apology, this could scarcely be called handsome,
but it might be construed into an expression of regret.

" Thanks, mother," said Walter, " and now Margery
and I will just talk this over. Shall we, Margery ?"

They went together to Margery's sitting-room, where
were all the tokens of their childhood, the picture of him
drawn by her and framed by him, the four-legged table
^that only used three of those useful members, and a

10

146 JUGGERNAUT

hundred things more that reminded Walter of years that
seemed suddenly to have died, to have been plucked away
from the living stem of his consciousness so that they
withered. But it was only for a moment that he looked
silently round, and then he spoke.

" Margery dear," he said. " What shall we do ?
Would you rather I went away, or you ? I meant, when
I came into my mother's room this morning, to have my
own way about it, and go myself. But if — if she allows
herself to treat you like that, I see that perhaps you
would rather go away."

" Oh, she doesn't mean anything," said Margery.
" That doesn't matter. But, Walter, I am obstinate too,
and I so dreadfully want to be able to — to do something
for you, though it is such a little thing. I want you to
say which you had rather do, and let us settle it like that."

He smiled.

" But we are arguing in a circle," he said. " All that
I want is to do what you want. I can't help that. It
isn't unselfish, so I don't flatter myself, it's purely selfish.
What you want will please me best."

Margery laid her hands on his shoulders.

" Oh, you dear, you dear !" she said. " I do like you
so, and it does hurt so dreadfully, the whole thing, I
mean, you and me."

He nodded at her.

" I wish I could take it for you," he said. " I know it
hurts you awfully, and I am so sorry. I would so willingly
take the whole lot of it, just because it would all be you.
But I can't. And I think perhaps we had better not talk
about it. It doesn't help. We understand each other,
you and I. It would be queer if we didn't."

He gently took her hands off his shoulders, for it was
hard to bear them there, and sat down in the comfortable
chair with the protmding tuft of horse-hair. The latter
was very stiff and pricked his legs.

JUGGERNAUT 147

" What a disgusting chair," he said. " It looks as if it
came from a pawnbroker's. You must have a new one.
And the carpet's in rags. Well, Margery ? You see,
personally I don't care two straws what I do. I can't
choose between two indifferent things. It makes no
difference at all to me, if I go to town or stop here."

Margery walked up and down the room again in silence.

" I think I'll go, then, dear," she said. " It is only
reasonable Aunt Aggie should wish you to be here, and —
and I think she would absolutely hate me if I stopped
here and let you go. Hatred isn't nice, either for the
hater or the hated. But I don't see how she could help it.
And if only Mrs. Morland will have me, I shan't at all
dislike it, and the children are dears."

Margery sat down on the window-seat, and propped
her head in her hands, resting them on the sill. Like
Walter, she felt that the decision was of infinitesimal
importance ; nothing mattered, except that he was un-
happy, and that she could do nothing for him. And he
was so good, so gentle, so patient, which made her impo-
tence to do anything for him the more unsupportable. And
though she tried hard not to cry, she felt her eyes filling.

" Good ; then we'll settle it like that," said he. " Shall
I go and tell my mother ? It hasn't taken us long to
arrive at our decision."

She could not answer, and he came across the room,
guessing why she was silent, and stood behind her, a yard
away or so.

" Margy dear," he said. " I can't bear that you
should grieve. If you want to help me, buck up a bit
yourself."

She turned round to him, and, though her throat felt
tight and choking, she managed a smile.

" Yes, I will," she said. " Oh, Walter ; God bless

j you !"

And at that he turned quickly and left her.

CHAPTER VII

Margery sat a while longer at the open window letting
the breeze of this bright April day blow in upon her,
ruffling her hair, and laying the touch of its cool freshness
on her cheek. Before long Walter crossed the lawn
outside, with a rapturous dog or two in attendance, going
down apparently to the farm, which they had not visited
in their walk yesterday, and at sight of him the joy of
being loved, the fulfilment of the noblest craving in any
nature, man's or woman's, and the pain which here was so
indissolubly bound up with it, strained and pulled at her
heart. But how rapturously would she have sacrificed the
one, if its withdrawal could have healed the other ; how
gladly, could both be expunged, would she have called to
him, bidding him wait, so that they might go for a prowl
together. But now all that was impossible : for she had
understood very well the impulse that just now made
him loose her hands from his shoulders. It was inevitable,
she supposed ; that was the miserable part about it.
Loving, he could not bear the little instinctive sign of
mere comradeship from her. And for such reasons he
had better take his prowl alone.

It was no good, anyhow, to idlehere, letting her mind
dwell on these aching topics. Besides, he had told her to
" buck up," and to employ herself, she supposed, was one
of the most obvious ways of doing so. And yet it did
not seem worth while to practise, nor to read Goethe's

148

JUGGERNAUT 149

" Faust," a task which she had set herself to accomplish
before Easter. What was she to do ?

And then her eye fell on that volume bound in white
vellum which her " antique friend " had sent her.
Though it had been here a week, and she had read every
day in it, she was not more than halfway through it, for
those lucid yet decorated periods required to be read
closely, and often re-read, for there was not only the
sense that they conveyed to be assimilated, but the music
of the words to be listened to. Never had she read
English quite like it ; it needed to be read aloud before
it could really be appreciated, and often she read so to
herself, letting the ear feast on its sentences, not being
content to leave them to the cold insensitive judgment
of the eye only. And yet this morning, somehow, she
hesitated before opening it ; it seemed cruel to Walter ; it
seemed as if she did not care. Yet that was fanciful,
fantastic, a meaningless piece of sentimentality.

Margery opened the book, and at once found the place
where she had stopped, though it was in the middle of a
paragraph, for the beginning of it was familiar to her,
part of her almost, and the end a stranger still. How far
it was the mere beauty of the writing which so enchained
her, how far the fact that it was immensely individual
in character, and spoke to her so strongly of the writer
that sometimes she fancied she could almost hear his
voice in it, she did not know. Certainly she was very
conscious of the writer when she read. It was fine,
exquisite, delicate, so far removed from the ordinary
humdrum, that she seemed to be sitting high above
clouds ; enjoying existence brilliantly, in the sparkle of
some pellucid southern noon. It might, as far as ex-
perience went (as far as hers went, in any case), be unreal,
but as she read, it sounded more real than her room,
herself, her trouble.

150 JUGGERNAUT

And she read :

" Theocritus completely realises this. There is no
doubt possible ; he makes it exist, as an artist must, so
that while we read, the frosts of our northern winters, or
the worries of our prosaic Uves, are no more than the
remotest memory of a dream. Only the shepherd-lad
pipes, the girl listens, and her flock of sheep grazes
unheeded round her. That bold one, the sire of so
many, still crops the grass ; the rest seek shelter from
noonday underneath the shadow of circular stone-pine,
or where the oleander thicket is on fire with blossom. In
such thicket she too has hidden herself, bright of eye,
burning of heart, and the starry flowers throw starry light
on to her bare arms and flower-like face. Corydon, his
herd also straying and unheeded, sits on a boulder undei-
neath the pine, and a goat from his herd spars with a ram,
and he throws his crook-handled stick to separate them.
He knows not whose is the other flock, and little he cares ;
with hands clasped round entwined knees, he begins
crooning to himself some love-song of shepherds and the
mountain-side. Yet he has not got the words correctly,
the lazy boy, brown-shouldered and smooth-chinned. He
chants the old tune awry, with the word 'Amaryllis' spoil-
ing the dactyl of the song. Again and again it is 'Amaryl-
lis,' and it was Amaryllis who crouched in the shade of
oleander, star-sown with the reflection of its starry
flowers. And then the long-lashed eye of him turned,
catching a tremor in the bushes, unusual to the windless
noonday, and ' Amaryllis ' he said again, and the rhythm
of the song was entirely broken, but the rhythm of his love
was sweetly in tune with the beat of her tremulous heart.
And soon with fingers intertwined . . ."

Somehow he, or Theocritus, or the combination of the
two, struck a cord not in Alexandria, nor two thousand
years ago, but struck it here and now. Margery was not a

JUGGERNAUT 151

sentimentalist, but she was young, and the youth of her
cried out, haihng its companion, loving it across two
thousand years, if need be. It was she who sat in the
starry-flowered shade of the oleander, she, her heart,
stirred there, when Amaryllis' name was called. Who
called it ? No, not Theocritus nor any old-world Corydon,
but he who made Corydon live to her.

She turned the page, and read on, speaking the words
in a low whisper, so as to better catch their music.

" There is no artist, no painter of landscape, who with
all the colours of the palette can make canvas glow with
such noonday luminance of the South land. The skies of
the incomparable Claude even are not so blue as the
vault which with half a score magical words Theocritus has
spread for us above the stone-pine on the hills of Greece,
and which, reflected in the starry oleander- blossoms,
stains the fair soft neck of maiden crouching there. In
two words, he paints that sparkling canopy of azure, a
great wash of purest ultramarine, and then, with delicate
stencilling-brush, gives us exquisite detail, tells us how
cunningly was carved the head of the shepherd's crook
which Corydon, with one sweep of that beautiful sun-
browned arm, throws to separate the goat and sparring
ram. He had fed them in the ripe thickets by the
stream that morning, and had plucked those tendrils of
the clinging ivy with wine-dark clusters of berries, which
he had twined into a chaplet, and laid, all cool and dewy,
on his comely locks. ..."

Someone had come into the room as Margery read, but
he had to give a discreet little cough to take her attention
off her book.

" Oh yes, Frank, what is it ?" she asked, still sweetly
wandering in her wits. Frank; the second footman, was
rather a friend ; he was nice to animals.

" Mr. Leveson wants to know if he can see you, miss," he
said.

152 JUGGERNAUT

" Oh yes ; I'll come down. Is he with Mrs. Morrison ?"

" No, miss. He's waiting at the front door on his
horse. He asked if you were alone."

Now, there was no girl in the world less of a flirt than
Margery, none, either, less likely to imagine vain things.
But it is a fact that at these impassive words (Frank had a
face hke a hatchet and a voice of wood) her heart suddenly
beat. That was a thing beyond her control ; it was silly
of it, but, so to speak, it had nothing to do with her. She
quite disowned the ridiculous organ, which beat without
anything whatever to beat about.

" Then please bring him up here, Frank," she said, for
that seemed the simplest thing to do.

The man left the room, and Margery got up from her
seat, leaving the book there. Had she been a little less
simple, it might have occurred to her to shut it, perhaps
to put it away, and had such a thought have entered even
into the remotest comer of her brain she would have
done so. But she no more thought of doing that than of
looking at herself in the glass to see if she was tidy, or of
throwing anything over the protruding tuft of horse-hair.
Calculated " coquetry " — to use a dreadful word quite
suitable to a dreadful thing — might have led her to behave
exactly as she behaved, and to have left the book where
it was, and not mind how she looked. But here extremes
met ; she did exactly what the coquette would have done,
just because she was so different. Simplicity affected can
be the most artful of tools ; but it is an error to suppose
that it cannot be natural.

They shook hands, and he looked quickly round the
room with those very tranquil eyes. The white of them
looked as if something dark underlay it ; it was the trans-
parent white of plovers' eggs.

" I like this room," he said quietly. " And you haven't
shown it me before. It looks hke a room that belongs to

JUGGERNAUT 153

a person ; not a room that belongs to the housemaid who
dusts it, and put things in their places."
Margery laughed.

" You mean it looks very untidy," she said, " but you
say it very kindly. You rode over ?"

" Yes, I rode fast. You guessed I rode ? I am out of
breath and untidy. But you also pat it very kindly.
May I look round your room ? Please let me ; you looked
round mine. I know I shall like yours."

It was true that he seemed a little out of breath ;
Margery had not noticed it till he suggested it himself.
And then it occurred to her that, for the first time, she
saw some agitation underl3dng his manner. And then she
remembered again with a heart that beat foolishly,
ridiculously, that he had asked to see her alone. At that
some sort of embarrassment seized her, and she spoke,
hearing her own voice say things that even as they were
said sounded unhke herself. But she scarcely cared.

" You will find nothing but silly relics," she said,
" things that Walter and I played with. We made that
table, for instance, but be gentle with it. And I did that
absurd portrait of him, and he made the frame for it.
We could never decide to which of us it belonged. The
canary is mine ; he stuffed it, and so badly. There are
bits of wadding coming out of its beak."

He had followed those objects with his eye, as she
mentioned them. And then he saw the book that lay
open on the table.

" I hope that is not a rehc, too ?" he said.

Margery suddenly found that her tongue stammered.

" N-no," she said. " I was reading it when 'you
came in."

" And it doesn't bore you ?"

" Ah, how c-could it ? It is so beautiful. I never can
thank you enough for sending it me."

154 JUGGERNAUT

And then by an effort she banished the unusual
stammer.

" I haven't read it all yet," she said, " because I have
to read it slowly. It is quite lovely. Wouldn't it have
been nice to have been alive then ?"

He had walked as far as the table, and at that moment
he turned back towards her again, shutting the book that
lay open by a quick nervous movement.

" I beg your pardon," he said, " I have lost your place."

" Oh, but it doesn't matter," said she. " I always
know where I have got to."

Then came the great, sublime, common movement.

" Don't read any more," he said, " until we read it
together. Do you see ? ISiot that we shall ever read the
silly thing. But together."

Margery looked at him, standing quite still.

" You and me ?" she said.

" Yes."

Margery suddenly felt as if all the power and force of her
strong young body left her. Her knees shook, her hands
trembled, and she sat, or rather collapsed into the chair
that stood beside her. But that lasted but a second, and
next moment she looked up at him, with yearning and
love streaming from her eyes, from her to him, in a
luminous torrent. She knew nothing except that he
stood there, waiting for her reply, still a little breathless.
All else was gone for that moment, ancient Alexandria,
Walter even. And then she held out both hands to him,
giving him the answer for which he waited.

Then after a little while there began that talk, which,
though it has been repeated a million and a million times,
is always new, and never quite the same, when for the
first time two hearts are bared to each other, and two
souls meet, as when Adam awoke from his sleep in the
garden of the Lord, and found that there had come to him

JUGGERNAUT 155

a woman. It was so with Arnold now ; never had woman
come to him yet, she and the glory and the mystery which
her unveiling makes but the more mysterious ; all his life
had been passed in deep sleep, and now when he awoke on
this morning it was Eden indeed, and the new presence,
beautiful, bewildering, stood by him. And not less so to
her was this moment of awakening, for she awoke to find
what she had dreamed of was true. Eager and vivid,
according to her nature, as had been her dreams, they
were of stuff that now vanished like mist. She had
dreamed of the beautiful mind which had revealed itself
in the pages that she pored over, but even that was un-
substantial now, when the man himself, body and mind
and soul alike, was close to her, with her alone in the
shabby sunlit room that was hers, telling her that his
awakening had come. And yet it was scarcely credible
that it was he who really actually spoke, that it was she
to whom he spoke.

" Oh, I know how poor the gift is," he said, " and how
royal a gift I take in exchange. But I can do no more
than give you myself, dedicate myself, and I suppose one
should not feel ashamed when one gives all. And, such
as it is, it has never been pilfered or borrowed from yet.
My heart is a chamber that none have entered yet ; you
are the first to cross the threshold. Lock the door after
you, Margery. None other shall come in."

To Margery this seemed the perfection of human utter-
ance ; she did not know that words could be so sweet.
But it is a question whether a listener or critic, had there
been one, would have found them so flawless. They were
a shade too literary for the occasion ; not a word was out
of place, not a syllable was stammered over. His joy,
which was genuine, did not at all choke his utterance, the
sentences came out with admirable smoothness. Again
the hypothetical critic might have taken exception to the

156 JUGGERNAUT

subject of the polished period, for, coldly considered, it
was all about himself and his heart, and though it was
very proper that he ehould feel the inadequacy of it, he
need not have been so insistent on the point, seeing that
he was talking about himself. But it was no wonder that
Margery found perfection there, for it was about him ;
about nothing else did she wish to hear. She would not,
woman though she was, have been so wrapped and
enfolded in the feeling of what love meant if he had
spoken of her perfection instead of his own shortcomings
and unworthiness. His manner, too, well fitted his
discourse. He had kissed her just once, and then knelt
on the ground beside her chair, holding one of her hands
clasped against his breast. Yet he was not in the least
posing : finished, he might be called, but that was his
nature.

" Oh, I can't bear you to say that to me," she said, " to
speak like that of yourself, when you know, oh, you must
know, that you give me the best and most beautiful
thing the world contains. And it came as — as such a
surprise, though heaven knows how ready I was. Do you
remember the first night you dined here ? I had an
awful cold, and had my shoulders \\Tapped up in a shawl
like an old woman in an almshouse."
He smiled at her.

" Yes, yes ; oh, so like an old woman in an almshouse,
you wonderful Tanagra figure."

" I ? You are laughing at me already. But you
mustn't, because it is all serious. You talked about cats,
and I saw how you understood. It is everything to
understand. Oh, antique friend ! What a lot you have
taught me before I ever really knew you. I don't now,
even, you know. Tell me about you. All the bad things
you can think of. Don't you love a person's weaknesses
and bad points, if you very much like the person, I mean,

JUGGERNAUT i57

almost more than their good points ? It is the bad points
that are so darhng."

He laughed ; this might be nonsense, but it was adorable
nonsense.

" That is too much to ask just yet/' he said, " when it is
still so important that I should make a good impression.
You might not like my bad points at all."

Margery shook her head at him, tremulous-mouthed.

" I'm afraid you haven't got any," she said. " Can't
you think of one ?"

" Well, if you insist. I am a coward, I am conceited,
I am jealous "

" That will do to start us. Coward, tell me about your
cowardice."

" I was deadly afraid of coming here this morning. I
was frightened to death at the thought of telling you."

]\Iargery's eyes dwelt on his softly, tenderly.

"Oh, dear. This won't do at all. It is the biggest
bravery to be afraid of a thing and yet do it. Let's try
the next. Conceited ? What about ?"

" That silly book on the table, for instance. How con-
ceited I was the day I sent it you. I thought : ' Now she'll
see that the poor old antique friend does know something
about something, and can, to some extent, express what
he knows.' "

" Ah, that was conceit," said Margery softly. " It is so
clear to me, though I have only read half of it, that you
know nothing, nothing, and record your ignorance so
awkwardly, so unintelligibly. Shall I say to you the sen-
tence I was reading when you came in, to convince you ?
' He had fed them in the ripe thickets by the stream that
morning, and had plucked those tendrils of clinging ivy
with wine-dark clusters of berries, which he had twined
into a chaplet and laid, all cool and dewy, on his comely
head.' That was as far as I got. And then you came."

158 JUGGERNAUT

A sudden ardour more human and simple than any he
had felt yet tingled through him as she spoke the words
he had written, and he took the hand of hers that he still
held. and kissed it.

" You set them to the music of your voice," he said.
" I am proud of those halting sentences, without conceit."

" Jealous ?" she said.

" Yes, I have been jealous of that delightful cousin of
yours, who I hear has just come home. WTiy, what is the
matter, my dearest ?"

For Margery had risen suddenly, almost snatching her
hand away from him, and gave a little low cry of distress.

" Ah, I had forgotten, I had forgotten," she said.
" How wicked and selfish I am. And yet, how could I
help it ? You came, and there was no room left in my
mind for me to remember anything else."

" But what is it ?" he asked.

" Walter, poor darling Walter. He— he proposed to
me yesterday, only yesterday, and I was so sorry. Indeed
I was ; I lay awake half the night, tossing and turning, and
aching for him. And it all went from my mind when you
came ! I do not deserve such a friend. And my plan,
too, what is to happen to that ?"

For one moment a sort of spasm of self-congratulation,
almost complacent, held Arnold. It was wholly natural ;
it was alrnost inevitable. Then ]\Iargery's evidently
keen distress engaged him again, and he found, after
a single second's thought, an elaborately-felt thing to
say about it.

" Lovers are supposed, even allowed, to be selfish
creatures," he said. " And, dear me, it seems very
reasonable that they should be. Wliat else could you
expect if they all feel as we do ? But you, with the
tenderest heart in all the world, are not thus. Even in the
midst of our bliss you can think of him with distress and

JUGGERNAUT 159

aching. You make me ashamed to do less. I am sorry also.
How could I not be when I know what he has missed ?"

These admirable reflections failed for the moment to
console Margery.

" And he is so good and gentle," she said piteously,
" and I am so fond of him You don't know what he has
been to me all these years."

" I guess what you have been to him," said he, " and so
I am sorry. And your plan ? What plan was in your
wise little head ?"

Margery looked at him for a second, with the sunlight
and rapture of the present moment bursting through these
soft tender clouds.

" I don't know that you will like my plan very much,"
she said, " and I don't know that I like it either, now.
You see, it was clearly better for one of us, after yesterday,
to go away, and we settled, he and I, that I should take
a place as a governess "

" I do not approve of that plan," said Arnold. " Was
it his ?"

" Ah no ! The dear boy had already made up his mind
to go away and live in town, in order to get out of my
way. It was I who made him give it up and adopt my
plan. He had no thought for anything but me. You see,
Aunt Aggie would not have liked his going, and, after all
it is his home. The idea was I should go to the Morlands',
whom I like very much. I should have been very happy
there. I was expecting to go to-morrow or the next day,
as soon as could be managed."

Margery at first, when the great thing happened, had
forgotten Walter ; then, quite as soon as could be expected
of what Arnold had called (though he knew not with what
truth) the tenderest heart in the world, she had remem-
bered him ; now — a third phase — remembering Walter
she entirely forgot herself, remembered nothing but

i6o JUGGERNAUT

Walter. The great thing, love, and all the sweet future
of it, was already quite safe, enshrined, and all the
affection and the dear ties of her former life were not
weakened but strengthened by it. If it had been a
former habit to be kind and tender especially with all
that was ailing and suffering, the habit now had a double
potency, the instinct became more overmastering.

" Yet what else is there to be done ?" she continued.
*' I cannot, I simply cannot, let Walter know just yet the
tremendous thing that has happened. It is a cruelty of
which we cannot even think. And if suddenly he finds
my plan has changed altogether — for it was but an hour
ago we settled it all, here in this room — he will know
something has happened. He knows already there is
someone else — I told him that, though I did not say who
it was. Nor did he ask me."

Arnold — it was not reasonable to suppose that his
aesthetic perceptions should suddenly atrophy, because
Margery had accepted him — could not help asking a
question, in order to see Margery's beautiful instincts deal
with it.

" Why did you not tell him ?" he asked.

She looked at him with head a little on one side as if in
wonder whether he spoke in j est. Surely he must be jesting.

" You are teasing me merely," she said, " for you know
that you are asking me one of the big simple things to
which there is no answer, except that they are so. How
could I speak of you to him ? You know I couldn't."

Yes ; it was enchanting, as enchanting as the mirror of
water which must reflect the sky. Even his question had
not ruffled it ; no shattering of the image had passed to
trouble it. And she went on with the same childlike
simplicity.

" And I can't tell him now," she said. " And if I don't
go away, as we settled, he must see that something has

JUGGERNAUT i6i

happened. And I am so bad at concealing what I feel ; I
leak somehow. I must go, I think, and, for a few weeks.
Cannot this be our secret ? I should like nobody to know.
I don't want it shared yet by anyone ; it would seem to
take a bit of it away from me."

Margery looked troubled for a moment.

" Here am I, mixing my selfish self up with it all again,"
she said. " I like it, love it to be our secret for selfish
reasons. But, indeed, the other reason exists, that of
not telling Walter just now, for his sake. I thought of
that first, too. I did really. And there I go again,
excusing myself !"

How enchanting she was ! All his life he had lived in
dead things, in the records and the achievements of ages
long past, and now, here to-day, there was his incarnated
Tanagra, who loved him, making real, bringing into Hfe
all that before had been but clay figures and manuscripts.
All the hiatuses, all the life that had to be conjured into
these things by force of imagination was being realised
without effort. He only had to look and listen, to allow
himself to feel.

" Besides," said Margery, suddenly becoming hugely
practical, " if Mrs. Morland takes me I shall be next door
to you. You won't have to ride over and get hot — oh,
dear, I hope you won't catch cold — and I shan't have to
sit in the silly motor, and drive for miles and miles.
Aunt Aggie, too — oh, if you are a coward — only I proved
you were not — what am I ? What will she say when she
knows ? And your mother ? I forgot her ; I forgot
everything but you."

Margery laid a timid hand on Arnold's ; it was the first
spontaneous caress she had offered, and the very shyness,
the tentativeness of it was deliciously in keeping with his
ideal. She was coming to life (such was his thought)
graciously, tenderly, diffidently. And to an Epicurean

II

i62 JUGGERNAUT

in sensation every emotion is tinged with Epicureanism ;
he loved the thought of the temporary secrecy, the
intrigued visits. Yet his next words were perfectly
sincere.

" You must not keep me waiting too long," he said,
" if I consent to your plan. And my mother must not
be kept waiting at all. I told her last night of my hopes,
yes, and of my fears also. But she will forgive Walter
now. This morning she came to the gate and bade me
God-speed. If — if it were not for leaving you I should
long for my return to her. There is only one person
better and dearer than a man's mother."

" Then do you agree, for Walter's sake ?" she asked.

" I don't care a straw c^bout Walter's sake," he re-
marked. " But I agree, for yours, if you wish it. But it
is only if Mrs. Morland's children are the ones in question.
If you propose to go further away than you are here, I
should take my courage in my hands, since you say you
are a coward, and write a concise note to Walter. And —
and haven't we had enough talk about arrangements ?
The thing that has arranged itself surely calls for recog-
nition."

Not with Walter's roughness and unthinking violence,
but with gentle pressure he drew her to him, and again
kissed her. But Margery's heart had taken command of
her, and it was she who returned his kiss with quick,
trembling lips, and hands that laid close fingers on his.

" And you must go," she said, " but you take me with
you. Aunt Aggie often asks for me to go out with her
before lunch. She takes a little walk. I must go with
her, if our plan is to succeed, and I shall at the same time
ride with you. And kiss your mother for me, too, will
you ?"

For the third time he kissed her.

" Like that ?" he said quickly.

JUGGERNAUT 163

" No, that is for me ; it is mine. I used to smother my
mummy when I kissed her. I kissed her anywhere ; her
hair, her neck, anything."

" And when will you come and smother mine ?" he
asked.

" Oh, I long to ; as soon as is possible. Does she really
like me ?"

" She does. I am jealous again."
" Jealous ! you jealous !" said she ; " I want a mother,
too. I haven't had one for eight years."
Margery shook her head at her own words.
" Though Aunt Aggie is so kind to me," she added.
Anyone so sensitive as he could not fail to catch the
conscientiousness of this addition, and a man less per-
ceptive of nuance might have spoken directly on the
subject. His course, however, was steered to a hair-
breadth. It implied the knowledge that Aunt Aggie was
not wholly maternal, without suggesting it. Also it gave
a certain light touch to the perceived situation.

" Too many mothers spoil the broth," she said. " Mine
makes admirable broth. Please taste it soon."

He could scarcely help knowing how clever that was ; to
Margery there was no cleverness at all about it ; he
simply understood, which is, after all, a function more of
the heart than the brain.

" Many, many helpings," she said. " More than Oliver
Twist."

They went down together, reaching the hall without
detection. The front door was open, and just outside
was his horse, with hatchet-faced Frank patiently holding
its bridle. And then as they lingered but one moment
longer the door of Mrs. Morrison's sitting-room opened,
and out she came with no less than three completed
letters in her hand.

" Mr. Leveson !" she said, " why, what a pleasure ; and

i64 JUGGERNAUT

you have come over to lunch, as I hoped you would, and
will play a game of lawn-tennis afterwards ? Olive dear,
here is Mr. Leveson " — this was called over her shoulder
into the sitting-room — " come over to lunch and a game
of lawn-tennis. I hope the net is up and they've marked
out the court ? Margery, is the court marked out ? I
always trust to you for that. Perhaps you have been
forgetful, but it doesn't matter, dear, for if it isn't marked
you can lend Mr. Leveson some golf-sticks, and I'm sure
Olive has improved so that she will give him a capital
match. Olive, you must show Mr. Leveson all those strokes
that the marker has taught you. Lm sure you hop over
the bunkers as well as anybody. I often had half a mind
to learn it myself. I am sure it looks very easy, though one
never can tell till one has tried. It is just the day for a
game of golf. Before lunch let us all go for a httle stroll
in the garden. I want Olive to show you the place I have
planned for a rock garden, Mr. Leveson, and ask your
advice, though I do not know that I shall venture there
myself, as it is so damp. But Margery and I will see
what wants to be done on the terrace. If you leave
gardeners to themselves they do nothing but put in
sticks. Margery, will you run and fetch my hat ?
Bellairs will be at her dinner, and it is scarcely worth
while to disturb her. She is sure to have put it out ; and
two pins, dear — long ones ; and perhaps the little grey
cape. You will easily find it."

Margery had said she was a coward, and she incon-
testably proved the truth of her assertion by the alacrity
with which she went to find the hat and the two pins and
the little grey cape, leaving Arnold to manage his own
affairs. And her cowardice was endorsed by her subse-
quent behaviour, for though she " easily found," as Aunt
Aggie had said, not only the little grey cape but the pins —
long ones — and the hat, she deliberately waited upstairs

JUGGERNAUT 165

till an extra minute or two had elapsed so that Arnold
might escape or not, as he chose, from these nets baited
with lunch and golf and Olive. And really it was not
humanly possible not to smile a Httle over Aunt Aggie's
nets. They were so very patently spread, they were
made of good stout material, and Aunt Aggie " shoo'ed "
the quarry into them, pointing out, so to speak, exactly
where they were, so that he should not by any chance
run in the wrong direction. The little victim, in fact,
was completely conscious of the doom prepared for him ;
it was only the victimiser who was unconscious of hers.

Arnold had been polite but quite firm ; he had abso-
lutely no intention of staying to lunch, and when Margery
got back with the hat and the little grey cape, was saying
for the eighth or ninth time that he must be getting back.
Simultaneously Mrs. Morrison gave up the attempt, and
called into her sitting-room :

" You needn't interrupt your crochet, Olive ; Mr.
Leveson cannot wait to see the rock garden. But I shall
take a turn with Margery. You shall show him the rock-
garden and your new strokes at golf another day."

Margery strolled out through the front door with him,
to where his horse was being held, and while he put on his
gloves he spoke low to her.

" Mrs. Morrison has been wondering what we found to
talk about," he said. " I think she will ask you direct
questions. Had I not better tell her ?"

" Oh, Arnold, to-day ?" she said.

" Yes, her only, of course. Otherwise she may worry
you. I think it is best, if you don't mind."

Margery's face expressed blank and dismayed fore-
bodings.

" Oh, you are brave," she said, " but I will tell her if
you like."

" No, dear, it is for me."

i66 JUGGERNAUT

He left the hatchet-faced Frank again holding his horse,
and went straight back into the hall. Mrs. Morrison had
got the little grey cape on, and one pin was already
adjusted.

" Ah, you think better of going away ?" she said.
" Delightful. Olive— Mr. Leveson "

" I must not wait long," he said, " for my mother is
expecting me. But may I accompany you on your little
stroll ? I should like to have some conversation with
you."

" You can go on with your crochet, Olive," said she.
" Mr. Leveson is not waiting for lunch."

Mrs. Morrison was not, as has been said, an imaginative
woman, and in general she was a stranger to forebodings,
though when anything untoward happened she often said
afterwards that she had felt it coming all along. But
to-day as they went out on to the cedar-shaded terrace
she had a foreboding of a most unpleasant nature, and the
feeling was so new and uncomfortable that she wondered
if she had eaten anything that disagreed with her. Perhaps
it was only the agitation of her talk with Walter and
Margery. Of all possible causes she preferred that it
should be that — of all possible causes she least preferred
that which seemed to her most possible. But she did not
fail in her ordinary volubility ; she must not appear
otherwise than calm.

" And I'm sure it's a great pleasure to have a talk with
you, Mr. Leveson," she said, "for I often say one gets so
little real conversation nowadays. Dear Olive is often
very silent ; sometime? I think she must have something
on her mind, but if there is anything I always avoid doing
such a thing as to force a confidence, however gently.
No one has ever said of me that I intruded into private
affairs, though it is wonderful how many people tell me
their secrets."

JUGGERNAUT 167

This seemed to be a favourable opening, and he ran in.

" I am going io add to their number," he said. " In a
word, I have proposed to Margery, and she has consented
to make me the happiest of men."

The foreboding had come true, though it had seemed
almost too bad to be true. All her nets had been spread
in vain, and in vain, too, had been her delicate tissue of
variegated falsehoods to this man's mother yesterday.
It was the most dreadful blow — a blow, so she thought
(though she could not possibly say why) of a treacherous
nature, struck at her from the dark. And it seemed to
throw a new and lurid light on Margery's character.
There was something, it appeared, about the girl that
drew men on, lured them in, which probably she inherited
from her mother. It seemed scarcely possible that within
twenty-four hours any girl of proper modesty could have
received two offers of marriage, both, from Mrs. Morrison's
point of view, so highly unsuitable. It was bad enough
to hear about Walter's infatuation, though perhaps
Margery had done her best to repair the effects of her
fatal insidiousness by refusing him. But infinitely more
atrocious was her conduct now, for she had been so lost
to any sense of shame as to accept this man.

And then her mean, narrow mind saw another point of
view ; though her schemes (if you could call a mother's
natural hopes for the happiness of her only daughter,
scheming) had all given way, still if Mr. Leveson did not
intend to marry Olive, it was better that he should marry
Margery than take all his property, and wealth, and
prospective title, and share with them a girl who meant
nothing to Mrs. Morrison. Margery's conduct was no
less base, her insidiousness had undergone no palliation,
but schemers (so said the poor confused lady to herself)
usually get their way in this wicked world, and since
Margery had schemed and got her way, it would be pessi-

i68 JUGGERNAUT

mistic (a thing she detested) to shut one's eye to the
silver Hning of this abominable cloud. It was bitter,
bitter as a pill, that Olive should not become the future
Lady Northwood. but it was absurd to scrape off the
gilding — the fact that her niece was going to enjoy that
enviable position — in order to be nauseated at the naked
bitterness of the pill. And after all Margery had " let
Walter off " (this was how her thought phrased itself), and
that was something, though what a man — still less two
men — could find in her entirely passed her aunt's under-
standing. Perhaps she had let Walter off because she
knew what was coming.

All this, and much more, passed through her head with
the instantaneousness of impression. The news had been
like the opening of a sluice-gate on a river full of flood-
water, and it took no time at all for this collection of
miscellaneous objects of thought to pass through in a
turgid flood. It was not that she was quick in matters
of thought ; it was merely that the sluice-gate had been
opened so very wide, and there was such an extraordinary
collection of debris ready to pass through. And her
answer which followed the announcement came at once
in the confused fashion of her thoughts, following the
trend that had been indicated, following also the ineradic-
able commonness of her mind, which in general was
cloaked by her conventionality.

" Well. Mr. Leveson," she exclaimed, " and so that's
the end of all I have thought about so long, though I'm
sure I always kept it to myself. It was no wonder that
you didn't seem to jump at the rock garden, if your
thoughts were running elsewhere, and it quite explains,
though I am glad to think I asked for no explanations,
what you and Margery talked about for so long this
morning — I wish you all happiness, since that is your
choice, and as I concealed nothing, nothing, from your

JUGGERNAUT 169

mother yesterday, I am quit of all responsibility. I hope
Margery may make you a very good wife, and that your
relations will be pleased. I am not thinking of the incon-
venience to myself at all, though if ever there was a careful
letter written to anyone, it was the letter I wrote to Mrs.
Morland yesterday recommending ]\Iargery as governess to
her younger children, hoping that she would be indulgent
and remember what poor ^Margery's early years had been.
Of course, if I had known what you now tell me, I might
have spared myself the pain of writing at all, since it is
not to be expected that ^Margery will take a situation now,
however suitable. I suppose it means that Walter will go
away after his birthday, though it is six months since I
have set eyes on him, because it's only right to tell you
that he wanted to marry Margery too, who, I am sure,
must have something very attractive about her, though
for years I have tried to see it without very much success,
since it seems that everybody is after her. Poor Walter,
I am sorry for him, since one always wants everybody to
get what he desires, though troubles, as I shall certainly
tell him, are often blessings in disguise, for I know Margery
pretty well by now. It isn't that I don't wish her well,
and wish you well, and I believe Northwood is a very
beautiful place — EHzabethan, I should think, from
Country Life — but there it is. We must only be thankful
that things are no worse, but it is but right to tell you that
she is absolutely penniless, though W^alter was thinking of
settling something on her, which no doubt he will not do
now, when he knows. But I have no desire, except to be
friendly with you, and to think that Margery is a very
lucky girl. Who would have imagined that a child I
picked up from the slums — I assure you no less than that,
orange-peel in the gutter and all, with a barrel-organ on
the day her mother lay dead in the house, for I remember
it as if it happened yesterday — who would have imagined

170 JUGGERNAUT

that a child of that description should come to this ?
It only shows what care and education can do."

Even for Mrs. Morrison this was rather a long speech,
and, vulgarly speaking, she felt a little winded after it,
since the torrent of her loquacity had floated them off
the terrace and up the rather steep incline towards the
elm avenue, which Walter and Margery had watched in
trouble of gale two years ago. Up to this moment
Arnold had not had the slightest chance of speaking,
but now there was a second's pause, and he firmly
filled it.

" I felt sure I could count on your good wishes, Mrs.
Morrison," he said, " but you must please consider my
news private till Margery gives me leave to make it
public." (Mrs. Morrison mentally ejaculated " What
next ?" at this provision.) " It is entirely for Walter's
sake that she desires secrecy. It was but yesterday that
she refused him ; she felt, very beautifully, very delicately,
I thought, that it would be too much to ask him to bear
my felicity as well as his own pain. She intends, in fact,
to go away, according to her previous plan, and take a
place as governess at Mrs. Morland's."

There is a streak of romance, very exiguous it may be,
and scarcely worth mining for, in the most conventional
folk. At this particular moment it cropped out in the
arid barrenness of Mrs. Morrison's nature.

" And you will ride over incognito?" she asked, the gold
suddenly gleaming, " and kiss her in the shrubbery ?
Dear me, it is quite like a novel, the poor gover-
ness, for I assure you she has not a sou, and the rich
wooer."

" I knew you would be our friend, dear lady," he said,
with very liberal interpretation of her speech.

He took his long-delayed departure soon after, and
Margery and her aunt watched him canter away up the

JUGGERNAUT 171

grass slope in front of the house. Then Mrs. Morrison
turned to the girl.

" I am going to give you a kiss, Margery," she said,
" and when you are married, you must help me to find a
nice husband for Olive. Fancy your being able to help
Olive ! What an up-and-down the world is, to be sure !
You will certainly have to be presented."

CHAPTER VIII

It was a morning late on in May in the following year,
and Margery, alone, was engaged over a very late break-
fast at her house in Portman Square. She had been up
last night until the small hours were beginning to grow
of respectable size again, and had indulged in the luxury,
rather unusual for her, of not being called at all to-day,
and sleeping on until she woke up of her own accord. In
consequence, she had slept till very late, and Arnold had
already breakfasted and gone out before she appeared.
He had left a little note for her on her plate, saying when
he would be in, and proposing a short ride before lunch.
After lunch they were going down to spend Sunday at
their house in the country.

Margery opened a pile of letters as she breakfasted,
invitations for the most part, and made notes of them
in an enormous engagement-book. When she found she
was unable, owing to " previousness," to accept any, she
still put it down, enclosing it in a pencil line, to intimate
that she had been asked, but could not go ; and it gave
her little thrills of pleasure to see how many dinners she
might have eaten on some such night, or have gone to
how many dances, had not it been impossible to go to
more than one dinner or more than two or three dances.
She had never known, never even guessed, how kind and
hospitable people were ; it really seemed as if half the
people in town were wanting to see her. She knew — so

172

JUGGERNAUT 173

she said to herself — that it was Arnold they wanted to see,
for this was the first time for several years that he had
come up to town for the season, and of course everybody
wanted him, but anyhow all these friends of his asked her
also, and it was immensely nice of them, and she never
had had such a delightful time before. That was a surface
matter ; she would have been not one jot less happy if
she had spent those months in the country instead, with
him and his mother down at Elmhurst, but it certainly
was huge fun being up here, in this whirl of May, and she
was enjoying herself quite enormously. And that invita-
tion, one from Aunt Aggie to dine on June 19, was actually
the fourth invitation for the night, though it was over
three weeks ahead. It was a grand dinner, too, with
music afterwards. How kind of Aunt Aggie to ask her
to it ! and what a pity she could not go !

Margery noted down the last of these ; she would have
to run over them all with Arnold when he came in, and
ask him which he would go to, and went on with her break-
fast with a most admirable appetite. Her face was still
deliciously childlike and immature ; and her soul had not
lost one atom of that entire absence of self-consciousness
which had always distinguished her. She entered into
this great frolic of London life with the same abandon-
ment, the same wholeheartedness as had been hers when
at the beginning of her recorded history she lay on her
bed and cried over the drowning of a kitten that had never
been drowned at all. As a matter of fact, the world in
general was doing its very best to spoil her, but that
process, usually so swift and easy, had made no progress
at all with regard to her. She did not even resist the
world's efforts in this direction ; she was merely com-
pletely unconscious of them, and, instead of reflecting
complacently how charming everybody seemed to find
her (which was the case) she only found the world charming

174 JUGGERNAUT

instead. For, after her repressed and subordinated years
of youth, she had now within her a concentrated capacity
for enjo5mient of a colossal kind. The man she had
secretly and silently adored had declared himself her
lover ; she was young, strong, beautiful, and at the same
moment the doors had swung open into this dazzling, de-
licious life, where every faculty that made for enjoyment
could be exercised to the full. And since the one gift
which the little world known as The World really respects
is the power of enjoyment, it may readily be conjectured
that she was given ample opportunities. Never had a
more radiant being dawned on the horizon : London saw
that here at last was what they had been wanting so long.
She was the latest fad, and many women who were old
enough to know better, and much too old to have at-
tempted the feat at all, tried to copy Margery's inimitable
trick of being tremendously interested in anything that
was brought before their attention, with very little result
in the way of producing any illusion whatever. As a
carefully studied pose, in fact, even if it was maintained
with fair consistency, the Margery-manner was no good
at all. It only answered when it happened to be genuine,
and somehow it had hall-marks, so to speak, stamped
everywhere on it.

Lord Northwood, Arnold's uncle, to take a concrete
and thus more convincing example of the effect she so
unconsciously produced, was an admirable case in point.
There have been cynical and selfish old men before, but
rarely one so flawlessly consistent in respect of such
qualities. He had been accustomed to look upon Arnold
with a contemptuous dislike that almost merited respect,
so sterling and genuine was it. He himself was a Crimean
veteran, and thought but poorly of anyone who was not ;
but since everyone was not so fortunate as to have been
in the Balaclava trenches (not having been born till long

JUGGERNAUT 175

after they were filled up) Arnold might have tried to make
amends for a fault that was not wholly his by getting killed
in the South African War. If he had only done that, he
would also have made amends for the more unpardonable
crime of being his heir, and Lord Northwood would then
have transferred that part of his detestation to the next-
of-kin. And apart from this ex-officio cause of hatred —
— namely, that his nephew would inherit all his property
after he was dead — all that he knew of Arnold (he did not
know much) confirmed his dislike of him. He believed
that he lived in the country, ate slops, collected rubbishy
images, read books, and, what was more despicable, wrote
them, and went to bed at ten. That Arnold should marry
was, of course, an added cause of odium, for, not content
with being born, he must take steps which might con-
ceivably lead to the perpetuation, so to speak, of his birth
in the raising of a family. He himself was far too con-
temptuous of everybody else (except Balaclava veterans)
ever to have married, and though from time to time the
thought of ousting Arnold from his prospective honours
and dignities offered some inducement in this direction,
yet, in order to oust Arnold, he would have to beget a
son himself, who would probably be just as odious as his
nephew.

Lord Northwood was not, however, in voice, gesture, or
appearance of the type (a comic one) of the red-faced
hectoring Colonel, who talks about tiffin, and says, when
bridge is mentioned, that whist is good enough for him.
He was a bully, but not of a fulminating kind, and hated
his fellows, not with roars and tirades and gesticulations,
but with thin-lipped virulent irony. He never took the
trouble to call Arnold a milksop and a bookworm (which
was what he thought of him), but asked icily whenever
they met what page he had got to in his book, and what
it would be all about when he had done it. And his quiet-

176 JUGGERNAUT

ness — that of north poles and other cold inhospitable
quarters — was infinitely more formidable than shouting
and stamping. Consequently, when he announced in a
letter of three lines, without using the word " congratula-
tion," that he was in receipt of the information that
Arnold was going to marry, and wished to see the young
woman (he wrote " lady " and substituted " woman ")
who had been so fortunate as to catch his eye, there was
no room for doubt that he intended to make himself as
odious as possible. But Margery had received the news
that she was to make his acquaintance without tremor.
" Oh, I do hope he will like me," she had said,
" because I can't help feeling so much inclined to hke
everybody just now. And if, as you say, he is so fearfully
sarcastic, I dare say I shan't understand a lot of it, and so
I shan't mind."

Margery was to go with Arnold to lunch with the ogre
in his huge, sombre house in Arlington Street, but it
appeared, when they got there, that the ogre wished to
see her alone before lunch ; and even this, instead of being
terrific, appeared to Margery to be kind and thoughtful — ■
epithets which almost amused Arnold in their incongruity.
" He thinks we should be shy," she said, " if he saw us
together for the first time. Isn't it nice of him ?"

So she was shown into a large, square room overlooking
the Park, in which sat a tall, white old gentleman, extra-
ordinarily grim in aspect, who rose when she came in,
and made her an exaggerated bow.

" I believe I have the honour of seeing the lady who is
to be my niece ?" he said.

Margery advanced with perfect friendliness.

" Yes ; you sent for me, you know," she said, " so of
course I came. I was so pleased you wanted to see me."

She held out her hand, and he took it for one second
and let it drop.

JUGGERNAUT 177

" Are we to remain standing here like damned posts ?"
he said, " or shall we sit down ?"

" Whichever you like," said Margery cordially.

Now, this was not in the least the sort of behaviour
which he had expected. He was accustomed to a sort of
defiant coldness from those whom he treated with his more
directly offensive remarks, or, more often, to trembling
and quaking on their part. But this tall and not ill-
looking girl, as he already acknowledged to himself, was
neither defiant nor terrified. She looked at him with a
friendly smile. That was not to be stood, and since she
did not seem to mind his speeches he tried if she would
break down from her apparently natural cheerfulness
under a frigid silence. But she broke the silence at once
instead. " I thought it was nice of you to see me alone,
too," she said. " It's easier to talk alone, isn't it ?
especially when you are meeting a person for the first
time."

" So that the violence of one's rapture is not embarrass-
ing to others," he said.

Here clearly was one of the famous sarcastic remarks.
It did not confuse or confound Margery in the slightest.
She wondered vaguely if something had disagreed with
him to make him so cross, and decided that the best thing
was to take him quite literally.

" Oh, it is nice of you to have looked forward to seeing
me so much," she said. " I had no idea from your note
to Arnold that you thought so much of it. I am pleased."

Certainly he was a very cross old gentleman, which was
a pity, since it must spoil his pleasure to be so vitriolic.
But she made a mistake there ; extremely cross people
usually enjoy their own ill-nature immensely.

" You don't mean that," he said; " you are pleased
to be witty."

" Well, you didn't mean what you said about our em-

12

178 JUGGERNAUT

barrassing Arnold by the violence of our rapture," said

she.

" Do you answer Arnold back like that ?" he asked.

" No ; I think if he made sarcastic remarks to me I
should laugh. Oh yes, I'm sure I should."

" You spare me out of politeness ?"

" Oh, it isn't polite to laugh at strangers," said Margery
confidentially. " You see, I know Arnold so very well."

And then quite suddenly this cross old man surrendered.
Margery's youth, her childlike friendliness and frankness
all at once overcame him. It was no use trying to break
them down, and though he had not given the attempt a
long trial, he had not wasted the time.

" My dear," he said, " you may laugh at me just when-
ever you like. And if you don't want lunch, I do. So
let's come along."

Margery rose.

" I want it tremendously," she said. " I am frightfully
hungry."

And a moment later Arnold, waiting in another room,
beheld the portentous spectacle of Margery entering the
room on his uncle's arm. But it was soon perfectly evi-
dent that his uncle's feelings for him had undergone no
change Whatever.

Such was the almost instant effect which Margery had
upon one of the sourest old men God ever made, and it
was not the result of cleverness or of wit, since, as has been
already abundantly shown, she was not at all gifted in this
regard, nor, if she had been, would it have produced the
slightest effect on that very shrewd old bear. But in-
stead, she went up to it, and patted its head ; and when it
snapped at her, the very fact that she did not seem to be
hurt (nor was she) made him not cease snapping — for he
had by no means sacrificed that little indulgence — but
made him snap first without any hope, and soon without

JUGGERNAUT 179

even any thought of hurting her. Long ago she had got
on to the terras indicated in their first interview, the inti-
macy of laughing at him whenever it occurred to her to
do so ; and, outrageous as it sounds — outrageous, too, as
at times it seemed to Lord Northwood himself — he was
really fond of her. And since the world in general was,
happily, not so sour-souled as her uncle, Margery's effect
there, apart from the huge charm of her enjoyment, was
far greater. But it was founded on the same rock ; it
sprang from the wholesome sweetness of her nature.

Perhaps even more marked, and certainly more sur-
prising, was the change that she had wrought, not in the
character (for character is a thing practically unchange-
able), but in the life and habits of her husband. They
had been married now for six months, and up till the
present he had hardly done a week's work in any of those
months, so that his uncle, who before had despised him
for an industrious bookworm, would have felt himself
justified now, if he had needed justification, in despising
him for his idleness. It was not that he had in the least
lost his eye for beauty, his taste for classical line, his
interest in antiquity, but what for the present had
vanished was his zest for work. The tastes from which
that sprang concerned his character and were unaltered,
but his occupations — the manifestation, that is to say, of
his tastes — was completely changed. He did not study
beauty at second-hand any longer, but first-hand in the
body and mind of his wife. He knew a beautiful char-
acter when he saw it as well as he knew a beautiful picture,
and he was well aware how exquisite was that which had
become his own. But though his character was un-
changed, it had ripened. Even as a green orange, sour
and tooth-jarring, is as truly an orange as is the matured
and aromatic fruit, so Arnold Leveson, on this hot day
of late May, was as much himself as when a year ago he

i8o JUGGERNAUT

had been so sedulous over the Ptolemies. And the ripen-
ing had brought into fuller development certain sides of
the character which hitherto had been, if not dormant, at
any rate quiescent, waiting for that which should cause
them to stir and take part in his life. Some of them were
very excellent qualities ; some, it is to be feared, were
not quite so amiable. They had grown slowly and gradu-
ally during those six months, and the following indication
of what they were may be taken as representing what was
current in him on this hot morning of May.

Hitherto his conscious life, the life that shows itself in
what a man deliberately does, had, until he fell in love
with Margery, been, to put it broadly, a sexless life. In
themselves the Theocritan shepherdesses whom he read
about, the Ptolemaic queens who were such amazing
occupants of an amazing throne, had interested him exactly
as much and no more than the corresponding shepherds
and the corresponding kings. The drama of the girl's
life, of the woman's life, had not concerned him more
than the drama of the corresponding man ; his heart
had not quickened a single beat to the minute over either.
They were engrossing historical or poetical figures, but he
did not live with them in their lives ; he only observed
them with acute microscopical eye. And he had brought,
hitherto, the same though less engrossed eye to observe
his fellows. He did not want to take a part in the every-
day drama of his time any more than he wanted to live
under the Ptolemies. It was Margery who made him
want to live to-day, and by the efficacy of the same touch
it was Margery who made the dead world that had once
been so engrossing to him, engrossing in another sense.
He had begun to care not so much what the Ptolemies
did as what they were. But since that was largely a
matter of conjecture, he, for the present, left the Ptolemies
alone, and was more concerned with all that was his now.

JUGGERNAUT i8i

Margery had been Pygmalion to him as Galatea ; she had
given him Hfe, and, as was natural, he had at first no eye
except for her. For these six months he had been very
genuinely in love, but with all the immense good that that
had brought him — for it had been a fruitful wind of spring
to his nature — -it had also carried with it certain obnoxious
germs which were just now beginning to assume some
importance in his internal economy. Had he lived more
in the world than he had done, he would have taken it as
a matter of course that young and attractive women are
possessed of attractions and youth, and that the world
delights in both these excellent gifts. He had begun to
take his wife's welcome by the world a little ponderously,
a little unfairly ; in fact, a vague jealousy was beginning
to stir in him. Half the time he loved to see the frolic
welcome which she and the world showered on each other ;
half the time he wondered what it all meant. That was
the effect of his previous aloofness from the world : he
could not quite take the simple view ; he had to spy for
reasons just as he spied at unsuspicious Greek particles,
wondering why exactly they were there, and what shade
of significance they had.

He saw, too, and loved and delighted in Margery's —
Margery's unthoughtfulness. (He was not sure if he
would have been satisfied with that word had he been
writing a treatise on Margery, but, on the whole, it ex-
pressed his meaning.) It was not " want of thought "
that he meant, but a certain serene sans-dire welcome that
she unhesitatingly gave to all that came in her way. She
thought about those recipients of her bounty quite tre-
mendously, but the unthoughtfulness concerned her wel-
come of them. She was not like the charity commis-
sioners ; she never went into the merits of cases. What-
ever came to her as a case, and whatever the case desired,
whether it was merely to " play about " or was in need

i82 JUGGERNAUT

of some sort of help, she gave it with enthusiasm, and in
the warmth of her heart made sure that it was deserving of
any help that she could give it. " Poor dears, they have
such a dreadful time," was one formula that covered a
great deal. " Poor dears, they did like it so much,"
really seemed to cover the rest of the possible ground.
To both these formulas he responded ; the thrill of actual
life demanded that, but it had several times happened that,
after Margery had done something for the " poor dears," he
repented that he had allowed it. His response was wholly
admirable ; his subsequent consideration as to whether he
should have allowed it was not so good, and what was very
bad was that he now allowed himself to add up these in-
stances, and make, as it were, a mental bill against Margery.
Instances which will explain this were common enough.
Once, during May, they had projected a dinner-party, and
Margery had suggested music afterwards. That seemed
reasonable, and since she " knew about " music and he
did not, she had the entire responsibility of the entertain-
ment. The effect, however, was quite excruciating ; even
he could understand that. For Margery, warm of heart,
had engaged as the principal siren a soprano who had
fallen on evil days, or on whom evil days had fallen with
crushing effect, and had now a turbulent voice of extreme
power over which she had little control. She was a
" poor dear," however, which settled the matter, and
Margery had not the slightest notion that the evil days
were mainly of her own making, and were a direct con-
sequence of the cup that inebriates while it cheers. She
had sung one roof-lifting aria, and then had staggered
from the room with a wild eye and several loud hiccups.
An extremely awkward pause succeeded, while Margery
followed her out with an expression of childlike com-
passion, returning after a few minutes to relieve every-
body's mind by telling them that poor Madame Buon-

JUGGERNAUT 183

vicini was far from well, but had promised to go straight
home and go to bed. She thought that it was not influ-
enza, but surely to go to bed was the wisest thing to do
in the case. Everybody agreed that Madame Buonvicini
had done the wisest thing, and as Margery's candid news
spread round the room people laughed a little, but kindly
and affectionately. It was a bore to have to listen to that
dreadful woman singing, but Margery's sweet and incredible
explanation, which was clearly so real to the girl, gave
to many a little thrill of charmed delight which the most
exquisite singing would not have given. But Arnold, to
whom, as to the rest of the room, the cause of the prima
donna's indisposition was evident, felt that the party
would be London's laughing-stock. In a certain way it
was, but the laughter was not of ridicule ; it was of delight
in Margery. Then, as Madame had gone to bed, and so
could not deliever her second group of songs, IMonsieur
Buonvicini, who had been engaged to accompany his
wife, was induced to play a solo to take the place of these.
He selected an immense sonata by Beethoven, at the end
of which everyone was surprised at the lateness of the
hour, and had to go. But it was a hundred times that
Margery said, " Oh, I am glad you enjoyed it. Didn't he
play beautifully ?" And everybody cordially agreed that
this ponderous performance had been quite lovely.

Arnold had felt bound, when Margery announced her
intention next morning, of going round to inquire how
the incapacitated songstress was, to tell her of the real
state of the case, and Margery had received his news with
incredulous indignation.

" I can't possibly believe it," she said. " She told me
herself that she was just seized with a dizziness which
might happen to anybody. I don't think she can have
been so disgusting as to have come to my house to sing
when she was drunk !"

i84 JUGGERNAUT

" Ask anyone who was here last night," he said.

" I will. I will ask Lord Northwood. He particularly
told me how sorry he was for Madame Buonvicini, and
how he enjoyed our party."

" Yes, dear ; by all means go and ask him," said Arnold.

It was a Margery rather inclined to tears who returned
in about an hour's time.

" Oh, Arnold, I am so sorry," she said, " and nobody
will ever want to come to see us any more. Uncle Jack
says there wasn't the least doubt that she was what he
called ' a Httle bit on,' and I knew what he meant. And
he says she's always doing it. I didn't know ; nobody
had told me. Oh, do forgive me. I have made such a
f-fool of mj^self. But how could I tell ? One doesn't ask
everybody if she is quite sure if she is sober. You — you
take it for granted. But I shall send her the cheque just
the same, though he told me not to, because she would
never dare to ask for it. But if everybody saw, I must
say they were dreadfully kind about it. No one even
hinted such a thing, and they all said they'd had a delicious
evening."

It had been impossible to do anything except console
and comfort her, and the cheque was sent. Two days
afterwards Margery had a further announcement to make.

" She wrote me such a nice letter," she said, " thanking
me for the cheque, and telling me all about it. She said
she had been dreadfully tired, and had taken two glasses
of champagne before she came here, and they had gone
straight to her head, because she hadn't felt up to eating
any dinner. I think it so nice of her to confess. And she
says she will be delighted to come and sing again for
nothing. Don't you think we might give her another
chance ? I expect she's awfully sorry."

But there Arnold had been quite firm. He was glad
that Madame Buonvicini was sorry, but she must not

JUGGERNAUT 185

bring her sorrow here. Margery had thought it rather
hard of him, but supposed he was possibly right.

Then, again, to take a further instance of the items out
of which he was forming his mental bill against Margery,
there was her conduct with regard to Harry Morland.
That young gentleman, an old friend of Margery's, it is
true, had had a very spirited book on the Derby, with
the unfortunate result that he was left with a hundred
pounds more of debts than he could possibly pay. Arnold
did him the justice to allow that he had not actually asked
Margery for the money, but he had let her lend it him,
and apparently she had seen the propriety of not telling
anybody, even her husband, about it. He had found it
out by a purely accidental glance at Margery's cheque-
book, which she had left lying about, and there in a clear
round hand (Margery's business-like hand, which was very
different from her usual feverishly-hurried scrawl) there
was written on a counterfoil, " Harry M. (Derby debt),
/lOO." It did not seem unreasonable to ask for an ex-
planation, though his knowledge was due to an accident,
and Margery had given it under seal of secrecy.

" No, darling, I haven't been betting with Harry," she
said ; " but you know his father isn't very nice to him, and,
of course, it was dreadfully foolish of Harry ; but there he
was, and couldn't pay his debts, which are debts of honour,
you know. So, of course, I lent it him, and he's promised
not to bet any more. He didn't a bit want me to lend it
him ; I had to insist, and make him remember we were old
friends. And he's going to pay me back next quarter-day."

It was always the same with her — much as she enjoyed
the frolic of life, she seemed to get a far deeper satisfaction
from befriending the " poor dears," and all those who
were bores, who were tiresome, who were unsuccessful,
earned from her the warmest welcome. And the motive
was always the same ; she was having a delightful time

i86 JUGGERNAUT

herself, and wanted everybody else to have a delightful
time too. Her Eden was no game-preserve. There were
no notices about trespassers being prosecuted ; no flame-
sworded angel stood in the gate. The gate stood wide,
and the only notice put up was " There isn't such a thing
as a trespasser."

Now, all this had, to a certain point, nothing but a good
and humanising influence on her husband, but all the time,
though only half-unconsciously, he was adding up a bill
against Margery, and as he became more conscious of it
and its items, they seemed to form a sober and serious
indebtedness. It was very good that she should be young
and enjoy herself, but her enjoyment must not be con-
sidered the business of life. So far he had entirely yielded
to her, and identified himself with her frivolities, but the
time had come when he must put the truer and more
serious aspects of existence before her. Music, for in-
stance, was all very well, and, like a man of culture and
enlightenment, he was quite willing that she should have
musical parties. But music was one thing and a tipsy
soprano another. Again, kindness was an excellent
quality, but if a young married woman paid the debts of a
young man, people would say things. (How, by the way,
" people " should know that this had happened he did
not consider.) And this same excellent quality of kindness
appeared to imply that all the bores and frumps should
continually lunch in Portman Square. Decidedly he had
reason on his side, for some of Margery's luncheon-parties
had really been composed of the mentally lame, halt, and
blind, but such arguments (as above), were not really the
cause of his growing dissatisfaction. The cause was that
he already envied a little the triumphant expansiveness
of Margery's heart. His own did not expand to bores ;
he thought they were a check on social enjoyment. So
also, as a matter of fact, did Margery. But with her the

JUGGERNAUT 187

premises that they were " poor dears " overrode the
temporary inconvenience.

He had his own serious views of existence as well.
Though he had sacrificed (not that it had been any sacri-
fice) practically six months of life to her without more
than opening a Greek anthology, it was clear that he must
set to work again, and capture, kill, and pin down, so to
speak, like a specimen of a butterfly, some further epoch
of historical importance. But work was impossible in
London, for he did not care for ]\Iargery going about
without him, and if he went dancing and dining every
night, how was he to regain that tranquil and unharassed
frame of mind in which alone good work was compassable ?
Besides, even without work, he was far from sure that all
this flurry was good for him. His health, he knew, was
sound without being robust, and several times lately he
had awoke with a slight headache, which warned him that
he had better not burn too much of even one end of the
candle. And on this very morning, when Margery break-
fasted so late, he, as he walked home, opened his mind, so
to speak, to himself, and found that what had been
vaguely simmering there like raw eggs, had taken form
and solidity. They were poached, cooked ; he and
j\Iargery would discuss them together.

But it must not be inferred that his ardour for her had
cooled. It was only that he told himself that he had a
duty towards her as well as towards himself. And if this
beam of duty was a little coloured — only a shade — with the
green of a just perceptible jealousy, he was not as yet
quite conscious of it.

She had but just gone to her room with her engagement-
book and the sheaf of cards of invitation when Arnold
came in.

" Oh, Arnold," she cried, " you are just in time.
Everybody wants us both to go ever3rwhere always, and

r88 JUGGERNAUT

as we can't, do tell me which to accept and which not.
Aren't they all kind ? And Uncle Jack is going to give
a week-end party in July, and wants me to be hostess. I
don't beheve he's ever done such a thing before, and won't
he be cross before it's over ? What a darling !"

Arnold took the cards from her.

" I suppose we had better go," he said, " though it is
in July, and I had plans for July. However, I'll tell you
of them later."

" Oh, but I would sooner do your plan than any of
Uncle Jack's," said Margery. " What is it ? Of course,
it would be nicest of all if we could fit them both in."

" Madame Buonvicini at home !" said Arnold, looking at
the uppermost card.

" Oh, is that there ?" said Margery, without confusion.
" I made a mistake. I didn't mean you to see that."

" And did you mean to go ?" asked he.

" Well, yes, just for a minute or two. You see, dear,
you tell me she isn't — isn't quite a teetotaller, and I don't
think it's quite proved. So, anyhow, it could have done
no harm if I just went and shook hands. I'm sure she
doesn't have a nice time ; not that my going would make
it any nicer, but if you're rather miserable, it helps a
little to know that people are friendly. Particularly as
it was here that she wasn't — wasn't quite well."

" Don't answer that, please, Margery," said he. " And
please don't go."

Margery glanced at the card.

" But it's R.S.V.P.," she said.

He could not help smiling.

" I believe if Judas Iscariot sent you an R.S.V.P. you
would answer it," he said.

" Yes, I think I should, though I should say I was afraid
I couldn't come."

" Well, then, if you prefer it, tell Madame Buonvicini

JUGGERNAUT 189

you are afraid you can't come. But she would under-
stand equally well if you didn't answer it, and no answer
is the best reply to such impertinence."

Margery looked at him with her clear, untroubled gaze.

" I don't think I agree with you, darling," she said. " I
feel sure poor Madame doesn't intend to be impertinent."

" She succeeds in being, then, without intention,"
remarked Arnold.

" Oh, but I don't think that is possible," said Margery.
" Impertinence implies that you mean to do something
cheeky and outrageous."

Arnold suddenly felt a little impatient with her. He
did not wish to argue about this bawling old inebriate.

" It is not worth discussing," he said. " But I do not
wish you to go to Madame Buonvicini's. I will say
nothing about her impertinence. I am merely telling you
my wishes. Is that enough ?"

Margery laughed. But she laughed partly to reassure
herself.

" I don't think you need ask me that," she said.

" No, I need not. I am not unreasonable, dear, and
there are some things you must simply take my word for.
There are others, again, about which we will discuss.
Again, there are others for which I take your word."

Margery wondered for one fleeting moment what these
could be, and then turned her wonder neck and crop out
of her mind. It had no place there.

Arnold glanced over the rest of the cards and notes of
invitation, and saw they were all strictly respectable.

" Please yourself entirely over what you accept and
what you refuse, dear," he said. " You know I want you
to enjoy yourself just as much as you can. You will have
rather a full time all June."

" Oh, it will be crammed," said Margery appreciatively.
" So will July."

190 JUGGERNAUT

" Ah, about July," said he ; " that concerns my plan.
Accept Uncle Jack's invitation, by all means. It will
please him. But after that I am thinking that I must set
seriously to work again."

Margery turned to him with enthusiasm.

" Oh, Arnold, I am glad," she said. " Your work is so
beautiful, and I do want you to write another book like
the Alexandrian one. And the British Museum is so
handy here."

" That is not quite what I meant," said he. " I am
sure I should find it impossible to work in town, and we
should go down to Elmhurst. After all, you will have
had two months in tov.m."

" I know, and — and it will be quite lovely to be in the
country again," said j\Iargery, almost immediately seeing
the bright side of a scheme that was for the first moment
rather a shock. " And I shall really practise the piano,
and in the evening I will play you what I have learned,
and you will read me what you have written. And in
August Walter will be coming to Ballards, I know. I
heard from him this morning. And shan't we have a
couple of week-end parties ?"

He laughed.

" Margery, you are incorrigible," he said. " My plan
is to get entirely out of London distractions, and you
amend it by proposing to bring London down into the
country. My dear, we have played pretty thoroughly ;
now let me work thoroughly for a few months. The
prospect doesn't appal you ?"

"Appal me?" she asked, laying her hand on his
shoulder ; " why, it's enchanting !"

" You won't mind a sohtary month or two without
guests ?"

"Ah, how can it be sohtary when I've got you there ?"
she asked softly.

CHAPTER IX

It would be absurd to say that Margery looked forward
to leaving town at the end of June without regret, even
though she had told her husband with the most candid
sincerity that a quiet month or two in the country would
be enchanting. Enchanting, without doubt, she believed
she would find them, but their enchantment would not
have been in any way impaired if it had been postponed
till the end of July. She was enjoying herself with such
whole-hearted exuberance that it was impossible not to
wish that it had not occurred to Arnold that he must get
on with his work without further delay, or, in default of
that, that it had been possible for him — with the British
Museum and all its books and objects and professors so
handy — to pursue his studies here in London. But it
never occurred to her to argue, even tacitly, about those
things. Arnold had said he must set to work again,
and that he could not do so in town. And that, as far
as Margery was concerned, was the end of any possible
controversial attitude.

But from Mrs. Morrison's point of view it was only the
beginning of a controversial attitude, and since Margery,
in her note of regret that she could not dine on the nine-
teenth, had mentioned the fact that they were leaving
London early in July, her aunt came round next morning
to talk about it and other things, choosing half-past twelve
as a suitable hour ; for she could then have what she called

191

192 JUGGERNAUT

a " good " talk to her niece, and almost certainly be asked
to lunch at the end of it, in case she was lunching at home.
She particularly liked lunching with Margery, because
all sorts of people dropped in. At her house people never
dropped in ; they only came in when they were asked,
and went away immediately afterwards, while the pudding,
so to speak, if not the meat, was yet in their mouths.

Margery, it may be mentioned, had since her marriage
come to occupy a very different place in her aunt's estima-
tion, and Mrs. Morrison now regarded her with a variety of
mean, mixed feelings, instead of considering her as a type
of insignificance. Margery had made (inxeplicable though
it seemed) a brilliant marriage. For that Mrs. Morrison
respected her, envied her, and disliked her. Margery was
quite capable now of doing " things " for her aunt, and
for that reason Mrs. Morrison both made up to her, and
simultaneously resented the fact that she should be able
to do so. Then, with a confusion of mind that was almost
pathetic, she had a secret grudge against the present
brilliant and popular Margery for having refused to marry
Walter, whereas, at the time when she refused, Mrs.
Morrison would have considered her a monster of ingrati-
tude and deception had she done anything else. Also
she had deprived Olive of the chance (which was really
non-existent) of marrying Arnold. Arnold was to blame
here, too ; it appeared to Mrs. Morrison that he had really
jilted Olive, though he had never had the smallest thought
of asking her to marry him. At the same time he had
married Margery, which fed Mrs. Morrison's self-esteem,
for it showed what kindness (her kindness) and sense of
duty (her sense of duty) could make of a girl who came
out of the slums. Also — it was without the faintest sus-
picion of its baselessness that she said this to herself —
she had brought them together. This deplorable jumble
of falsities, thus briefly catalogued, will indicate her

JUGGERNAUT 193

general mental attitude towards her niece, and account
for the rich and varied nature of her conversation.

She rustled hurriedly into the room, and put the fat
Japanese pug she carried on to the hearthrug, where it
instantly fell asleep.

" Delightful to find you in, dear," she said, " and as for
once I have half an hour to spare, though I am sure the
rest of the day is just a mosaic of engagements, and I had to
take Pug out for a little air, I managed to come round ; for
if you're going away early in July, it's little enough I shall
see of you, and your not being able to come on the nine-
teenth is a great disappointment. I think you might
have left the nineteenth open, Margery, for you must
have known well that I always give my musical party on
the nineteenth or thereabouts, if it isn't a Sunday, and
after all these years I wasn't likely to alter my date.
But there it is, and no doubt it was foolish of me to expect
you could come without making sure, and I left Olive
planning the table all over again. But dear Olive is
very capable and domestic, and does not want to be
rushing about after pleasures all day and night, but is
contented to do her home duties, and be my companion,
and all disappointments and upset expectations, I declare,
worry her less than they do me, for I never hear a word of
complaint. Dear me. Pug is asleep again ; I often wonder
if he gets too much exercise."

This last topic was rather hurriedly introduced ; Mrs.
Morrison had not exactly meant to say what she had
done about Olive's disappointments ; she did not, at any
rate, want Margery to ask her more definitely to what she
alluded. It was but an irrepressible little spurt of spite
against her niece. It may thus be inferred that she knew
Margery quite as little as ever, for Margery perfectly
understood, and had not the smallest intention of asking
for an explanation. For one moment a little wistful look

13

194 JUGGERNAUT

crossed her face, as she silently wished that Aunt Aggie
did not feel like that, and then she laughed.

" I don't think Pug looks worn out with exertion," she
said.

" No, dear ; but you are so strong ; perhaps you do not
allow for others being less hardy and fortunate than your-
self. No doubt you will get more indulgent and gentle
for others as you grow older. My nights are very broken
sometimes now, and when I lie awake I think of all the
other poor souls who are lying awake, and feel sorry for
them, which I dare say is much better for one than going
to sleep soundly oneself. When I was young I used to
require hardly any sleep at all, but now, with all my
anxieties and troubles, I feel the want of it."

" Oh, Aunt Aggie, I'm so sorry," said Margery. " Aren't
you having a nice time ?"

Mrs. Morrison felt ill-used and misunderstood.

" I'm sure I make no complaints," she said, " for you
ought to know very well that I make it a rule never to
complain ; and since I do not talk about my troubles, I
am pleased that everybody should think me happy and
contented. But what with Walter at his post so far away
in Athens, and all the trouble in the Balkans next door,
so to speak, so that there may be massacres and that sort
of thing there any day, and his not coming home till
August, and you going away in July, about which I want
to talk to you "

Mrs. Morrison had no chance of getting out of this sen-
tence, and so began a fresh one.

" And even then it's but little there is for Walter to
look forward to, for I expect he will find Ballards very dull
after his brilliant life abroad, with just Olive and me, a
widowed mother, and a broken-hearted sister ; and then
there will be the raking up of old wounds, or rather the
tearing open. Not that I blame you, dear, for if you

JUGGERNAUT 195

were in love with Arnold, why, there it is, and you couldn't
be expected to do differently, not if there were iifty
Walters ; but I must be permitted to be sorry for them, if
it does not hurt you, and, indeed, I cannot see how it
should, especially if you are going away in July, which I
came to ask you about. What does it all mean ?"

Mrs. Morrison, since she never complained, must have
been doing something else. As it was not quite clear
what that was, Margery left it quite alone, and answered
the last question.

" Oh, it merely means that Arnold wants to set to work
again," she said, " and he finds he can't work in town.
So we are going down to Elmhurst. He has been dread-
fully lazy all these last six months, and as he says it is my
fault "

" Have you had a quarrel ?" asked Mrs. Morrison, with
genial eagerness.

Margery stared at her a moment.

" A quarrel ? How could we ?" she asked.

" But you tell me he says it is your fault."

Margery laughed.

" Oh, that is his silliness — his dear silliness," she said.
" He pretends he has been so — so fond of me that he
hasn't thought about his work."

Mrs. Morrison felt vaguely disappointed.

" I am so very glad," she said — " so very glad. I was
afraid that you might have had some disagreement, and
then, indeed, there would be little but tragedy for all of
us. Pug has awoke. See how he takes notice of a new
room ! Is he not very quick and intelligent ? I am sure
I quite thought that both he and I would feel ourselves
quite at home in your house by now, but I declare I have
hardly set eyes on you, dear, and if you will insist on going
away at the end of June, it's little more I shall see of you,
since you have filled up the nineteenth !"

196 JUGGERNAUT

Mrs. Morrison gave a retrospective sigh.

" How well I remember the few days before your
marriage !" she said. " When I had finished getting your
trousseau and the wedding-cake, and all was ordered, and
there was no more to be done, what talks we used to
have ! And how well I remember your saying that I had
been a second mother to you, and would I go on advising
and helping you after your marriage ? You felt yourself
so young — as, indeed, you were, dear — to go out into the
world and be the mistress of a house."

As a matter of fact, it was Mrs. Morrison who had stated
these things, with considerable emphasis, so that Margery
could scarcely help assenting. This time she did not
wait for her assent.

" And so now, dear," she went on, "I shall fulfil my
promise of advising and looking after you, and, to tell
you the truth, I don't think your plan of going into the
country at the end of June is a good one. People will
think it so odd, and when you have lived in the world a
little longer you will see how important it is never to do
things which are thought odd. I am sure nobody can
call me conventional, but I do see the sense of behaving
reasonably. So, if I were you, I should be firm. The
ancient Egyptians or Greeks, or whoever it is going to
be this time, have been waiting many hundred years
already for Arnold's books — most interesting, I am sure —
to be published about them, and they can very well wait
a month longer. Besides "

Mrs. Morrison found it hard to proceed for a moment,
but a very short pause was sufficient to let her get up
steam up again.

" I should never think of asking you for anything for
myself," she went on, " though I am sure it would be
little surprise to anyone who knew a quarter of what I
have done for you if I looked for some little return for

JUGGERNAUT 197

the years of care and expense which I have poured out
on you. But it has never been my way to look for any
returns for what I do, and I shan't begin now — not that
I accuse you of ingratitude, for nothing was further from
my thoughts. But when I think of OHve, and how the
dear child was looking forward to all the dinners and
dances and gaiety which she would enjoy at your house,
and the pride she would take in seeing you at the head of
your table ; and when I consider that we have dined here
but twice, and once there was nobody but Arnold and
yourself, and no party, then I must say that I think you
might do a little more for Olive. But not a word has she
said to me about it ; she has too great a pride for that, for
in many ways she takes after me."

Margery could not have lived with Aunt Aggie for so
long without knowing that much of what she said required,
so to speak, retranslation before it could be taken to be a
veracious rendering of what she meant. These retransla-
tions she was accustomed to make without comment in
her own mind, and with no desire there except to find out
what her aunt wanted. And she swiftly made her re-
translation now without unkindness or ridicule. What it
amounted to was, " Aunt Aggie wants to come to dinner
two or three times." Then she answered, not her own
retranslation, but the Authorised Version.

" Oh dear, I am sorry," she said. " And it has been so
like me ; I have been enjoying myself so much that I
must have supposed that you and Olive — that Olive (the
correction was extraordinarily quick) was having a
splendid time too. But what am I to do. Aunt Aggie ?
Arnold really wants to go away at the end of June and
get to his work again, and he finds it impossible up in
town. Can't we arrange a night or two before we go,
when you can persuade Olive to come and dine ?"

Margery, with her usual impulsive geniality, seized the

198 JUGGERNAUT

enormous engagement-book, and rapidly turned over its
pages.

" There's the twentieth," she said. " We are not dining
out, and we're going to the Bractons' ball after. Dear me,
it is close on lunch-time ! Of course, you'll stop, Aunt
Aggie ; there are two or three people coming. But the
twentieth, now — I'll try to scrape some people together,
and we'll all dine here, and — and Olive does like dancing,
doesn't she — we'll all go on to the ball afterwards. Violet
asked me to bring some people. And tell Olive I shall
chaperone her, instead of you. What fun ! I never
chaperoned anybody before. Does one have to stand in
one place all the time, like — like a city of Refuge ? Then
there's the thirteenth. Let's have a little party for the
opera."

Mrs. Morrison had given herself away, and in her heart
she knew it. She had definitely asked Margery to ask her
to some sort of party, and jMargery, with complete ami-
ability, had done so. Therefore Mrs. Morrison vaulted,
so to speak, on to another horse. Her invitation, she
thought, to a dinner-party and Lady Bracton's dance
afterwards was secure. She could go there now if she
wished (and she certainly did wish), and, therefore,
she tried to appear as if she did not in the least want
to go.

" Is that the Lady Bracton who was divorced ?" she
said. " I am not sure that I should like to take Olive
there. I dare say it is all right, but there is some story —
no doubt you are too young to remember, Margery "

That, to put it plainly, was scandal, for which there is
a legal redress. Mrs. Morrison would certainly, had there
been a witness, have been liable to punishment. Yet the
motive for defamation of character was altogether absent ;
she only wished not to appear to wish to go to Lady
Bracton's ball, though she longed to go there. She also

JUGGERNAUT 199

meant to go there. But for the next minute it was
doubtful whether she would get there.

Margery got up.

" I think they said lunch was ready, Aunt Aggie," she
said, " and we always sit down when lunch is ready, and
other people come when they are ready. Shall we go
down ? Do let us have a little dinner on the twentieth,
as we settled, and then there will be no necessity for you
or Olive to go on to Violet Bracton's dance if you don't
feel like taking Olive there. I shall go, of course, because
we are great friends ; also it will be great fun. She isn't
divorced at all, you know. Aunt Aggie ; you have got that
quite, quite wrong, and so I had better tell you so, hadn't
I ? It is quite true that she doesn't live with her husband,
but that was because he was quite impossible to live with.
I don't think there is any need for me to tell you all about
it. Shall we go to lunch ? I am so hungry. But I think
it is rather a pity to make suggestions like that, Aunt
Aggie "

Margery paused a moment, her sweet, honest soul up in
revolt against the infamy of idle story-telling, especially
by people who knew nothing whatever about it. Her
face flushed, but no trace of the emotion that caused that
was in her voice.

" It might have done harm," she said, " if I hadn't
happened to know. I might have repeated it. And
though I don't suppose that anything I say can have
the least influence, we can't quite tell. I think it is an
awful pity to talk about things one doesn't quite know
about. And if one does know about them, and they aren't
quite nice, one doesn't want to talk about them, and make
them worse. At least, that is what I think."

Now, Mrs. Morrison wanted, quite particularly, to go
to Lady Bracton's ball. Already she had successfully
intrigued for an invitation, and here was Margery saying,

200 JUGGERNAUT

" Don't go if you would rather not." Her desire to go
was greater than her disUke of dimbing down. But down
she dimbed; though it took a good many words.

" Margery," she said, " I know of nothing that has
pleased me more than to be assured that Lady Bracton is
the sort of person one hoped she was. Of course, dear, it
is rather irregular that a married woman should give a
dance without her husband; but "

" Ah, then, don't go," said Margery. " I— I couldn't
possibly take you there, if I thought you were — were
thinking things."

Mrs. Morrison caught up the sleeping Pug, which,
having taken notice, had slumbered again.

" I am thinking nothing of any kind," said Mrs. Morri-
son. " And I know quite well how particular dear Arnold
is, and that you are his wife. But, dear me, what a lot
of words about nothing ! I only said what other people
are saying, and I am sure that I have no desire to put
ideas into your mind. Indeed, after what you have said,
I feel it my duty to go to Lady Bracton's house just to
show how false I believe to be all the scandal that one
hears."

They were halfway down the stairs from Margery's room
to the dining-room, and Margery stood still, facing her
aunt.

" Please tell me what you have heard, then ?" she said.

" Nothing — nothing at all, I assure you," said Mrs.
Morrison, rather agitated. Her agitation was such that
she squeezed Pug, who yelped in a wheezy, asthmatic
manner.

" Then, if you have heard nothing," said Margery,
" what do you mean ? If you have heard nothing, what
is it you have been hinting at ?"

Aunt Aggie drew herself up in her most dignified
manner. She did that to save time and think what to

JUGGERNAUT 201

say. All she knew was that Lady Bracton, whose hus-
band was alive, lived by herself, and gave parties to which
she most intensely wanted to go. The only objection was
that hitherto she had never been asked. But when Mar-
gery made it perfectly easy for her to go, her mean and
carping mind had to pretend that it was a simple thing
to ask Mrs. Morrison anywhere, but not so easy to get her
to condescend to go. But that attitude had been a mis-
take, and she changed it.

" I cannot tell you, dear Margery," she said, " how very,
very glad I am to hear that Lady Bracton's is quite the
sort of house one can go to. I am sorry I ever thought
differently, though I am glad I mentioned it, since that
has been the means whereby it has been cleared up. But
that has always been my motto — ' Be frank, and speak
out.' We will come to dinner with pleasure on the
twentieth, if Olive is up to it after my party on the nine-
teenth. And if she is not, I shall make a point of coming
myseli, to show how glad I am that — well, I have said
that before. Let us change the subject. Whom do you
expect to lunch ?"

Mrs. Morrison felt that she had done a good deal for
Olive when she returned home that day, for self-deception
is a faculty that grows very rapidly, and quite a little
practice is sufficient to make firm and solid convictions in
the mind of the practiser which have no relation of any
kind to actual fact. Indeed, the whole of her talk with
her niece, reflected in her account of it to OHve, had pro-
duced an impression worth setting down, so strangely was
it bent and distorted. Just as water distorts the lines
of any object placed in it, so that a stick half in the water
and half out appears straight no longer, but with one half
set at an angle to the other, so IVIrs. Morrison's colourless
and transparent mind warped all that passed through it.
Yet even as it is the same stick that appears bent, it was

202 JUGGERNAUT

the same conversation, and no other, that now came out
at a different angle.

" Yes, Margery seemed well," she said, " and I hope she
is happy. But she said something about Arnold saying
that some little disagreement they had had was her fault.
I could not quite understand, and one does not like to pry
and ask questions."

Olive suspended her work for a moment. It was a kind
of tatting done with thread, each piece of which, when
complete, made a small square mat which looked like
lace, and was not. In the exercise of its functions, it
stood between a finger-bowl and a dessert-plate. The
pattern was formed by a mixture of crochet stitches and
hard knots, which she tied very tight, as if she was
strangling something.

" Margery can be very provoking at times," she said,
in a voice that had grown a little more acid, though not
less colourless. " Did she ask you to dinner ?"

There was no nonsense about Olive ; but, as her mother
put it to herself, she was not very tactful.

" Dear me, yes ; nothing would content her but that I
must promise to dine with her on the thirteenth, and go
to the opera, and on the twentieth go to Lady Bracton's
ball. You, too, of course, dear "

Olive strangled one piece of thread with another.

" The thirteenth is Tuesday," she observed. " It is
your night for the box. I dare say Margery remembered
that."

" I declare I forgot myself," said Mrs. Morrison. " But
I think it would be kind if we went with Margery, and I
will let my box for that night. Very likely Margery does
not find it too easy to get people to go to the opera with
her, after that dreadful party of hers with Madame Buon-
vicini rolling about the room. She made quite a point of
our coming. No doubt that is why, poor child."

JUGGERNAUT 203

" Her portrait was in the Sketch this week," said Olive.

" So I was told. Indeed, I saw it at a station bookstall
exposed for everybody to look at. I am, sure, if I had
been asked a hundred times to let my picture appear in
an illustrated paper, I should have said ' No ' a hundred
times, and been surprised people could think it of me."

It was fortunate, therefore, that the editors of these
periodicals had not given themselves the trouble to make
a request which would have had so poor a chance of being
acceded to. Olive thought of that, but she had not time
to put it neatly into words, as her mother went on without
pause.

" And then she wants us to go to dine on the twentieth,
as I said, and go to Lady Bracton's party. Poor Lady
Bracton ! I dare say it would be a kindness to go and
help to fill her rooms for her, so I said that I would go,
and you too — Margery specially asked you — if you were
not too tired with my party the day before. And then
at the end of the month Margery and Arnold are both
leaving town, to stay at Elmhurst. She said Arnold
wanted to get on with his work, though, not having asked
him, I could not say what account he would give of the
matter. It would not be the first time that poor Margery
had screened herself at the expense of others, though I
dare say she does her best to be truthful and straight-
forward, and we must take the will for the deed. Dear
me, yes, how many times a day one has to assure one-
self of that, and believe that people are doing the best
they can ! When I think of the selfish lives some people
lead — how it is lunch, tea, dinner, dance all day and night
— sometimes I wonder if they have any sense of duty or
home affection. See, Pug notices the new tassels we have
on the window curtains. He smells them as if they were
something quite strange."

Olive looked towards the window-scat, and tied the end

204 JUGGERNAUT

of her little finger in one of the strangling knots. She
released it.

" They are strange," she said, " as they only were put
on yesterday. I suppose they smell different to a dog.
I do not think I shall go to Lady Bracton's party, as I do
not care about dancing, and I dare say Margery only asked
me out of kindness. Did you ask her to ask me ?"

Mrs. Morrison's mind told her that she had already
done a great deal for Olive to-day ; it appeared now that
she had to be made martyr for her good deeds. Ohve was
a perfect adept at inconvenient and stupid questions.

" As if I should ask Margery !" she exclaimed. " Why,
I had not mentioned such a thing. I had but said that
you — that we had seen so httle of her, and should see
but little more, if she was determined to go into the
country in the very middle of the season. And then,
there she was with her engagement-book, turning over the
pages, and seeing what days were possible for me. Now,
I wonder about Margery's engagement-book ! I'm sure
no one has more to do than I have always had in London,
and my engagement-book, the little one in green, such as
I have had since I was married, has always been sufficient,
and it is but half the size of Margery's. But then I never
tried to make a parade of being invited and sought after,
and to-day I wondered if Margery just scribbled a lot of
things down that meant nothing."

Olive made some more hard knots.

" I thought you didn't approve of Lady Bracton," she
said. " Perhaps I am wrong. No doubt I am, as you
want to go there. But that afternoon there is the
Kensington bazaar,"

Olive pondered a moment.

" But I will come back early from that," she said. " I
dare say my stall will be quite empty in an hour or two.
It is difficult to know how to deal with Margery. I want

JUGGERNAUT 205

to be kind to her, but she insists on being kind to me.
Perhaps you are right, mother, and perhaps she has a very
unhappy, quarrelsome Hfe. But she cannot prevent our
being kind to her. We must always be that. Perhaps
even it is kind of me to let her think she is kind to me.
So I will go both to the opera and to this dance, though, as
I said, I do not care about dancing. However, I dare
say I shall not get many partners. And if that pleases
Margery too, so much the better."

Mrs. Morrison always drove in the Park from half-past
five till seven every afternoon during the summer when it
was fine, just as she always drove in the country from
three to half-past four during the winter, in the motor-
car which a few years ago had superseded the two fat
horses. Olive usually, and Pug invariably, accompanied
her, and every day she said to the footman : " I do not
want to drive fast ; tell Donaldson not to drive fast."
To-day, however, Olive did not go with her, for she was a
little behindhand with the strangled-string mats for the
bazaar on the twentieth, and remained at home in order
to catch up. The work did not require close attention
except when the first main lines of it were being laid down,
and, having taken up a comfortable position on the sofa,
and told the butler she was at home to nobody, she knew
that for an hour and a half she would be able to indulge
uninterrupted in any reflections that she might care to
make.

They all concerned herself, or, more accurately, where
they concerned others, it was how others bore upon herself,
that occupied her. She had her mother's gift of self-
deception, and a little practice had made her fully believe
that she to-day would have been Arnold's wife had not
Margery stepped in between them. What he had seen in
her Olive could not imagine, but he was perfectly at liberty
to marry whom he chose. It was true that she did not care

2o6 JUGCxERNAUT

for him anv more than she cared for anybody else, but she
would have been perfectly willmg to marry him, and she
felt that she would have always conducted herself with
absolute propriety and correctness. She would never
have been late for dinner, she would never have thwarted
any wish or desire of his, and she would never have been
selfish. And. to do poor Olive justice, this hypothetical
survey was perfectly likely. Though she did not care for
anybody else, she did not really care for herself. It
would have been something if she had been selfish, for
then it is possible that she, in her dreary, joyless hfe
might have felt its joylessness, its dreariness, and have
been stung by the sense of loneliness into wanting interest,
desire, love. Even her mother, with her infinitesimal
schemes, her feeble ambitions, her maunderings about
Pug's health, her envy and malice towards ^Margery, was
more alive than Olive ; for though Olive had deceived
herself into belie\-ing that ^largery had cut her out \\-ith
regard to Arnold, she had not even the psychic vitality
(e\ll though it might be) to detest ^Margery. She had no
feeling whatever towards iNIargery or anj-body else, except
sHght vague resentment towards them all. She did not
live ; she only passed the hoiurs dully, comfortably, with-
out fears or hopes. She went to concerts, plays, operas,
she read books (and always knew when she took up the
current volume again to what page she had got). She
could even discuss with intelligence the different points
of dramatic interest in such things, but she only observed
the points ; the points never pricked her.

It was rather a dark evening, and when the church
clock struck seven she left the sofa, and sat in a chair in
the window. Once she stopped her work to open a couple
of notes that had come for her. One was a feverishly
scribbled note from jMargery, with a large blot in the
middle of the page, saving that the thirteenth and the

JUGGERNAUT 207

twentieth must instantly be put down in her engagement-
book and underlined, and Olive devoted a few moments'
thought to wondering what there was to be so excited
about. But she never guessed that mere warm-hearted-
ness was as the bottom of it. In any case, Margery might
have taken another sheet of paper — and torn off the blank
half — after making such a blot. She herself never made
blots, for she wrote with a stylograph. A stylograph,
quite a nice one with a little gold band, would do for
Margery's next birthday present. That would be in the
autumn some time. But she would buy the stylograph
next day. The best ones cost a guinea.

At precisely half-past seven there came the sound of a
motor stopping outside. She did not look out, for she
knew it must be her mother.

A minute later Mrs. Morrison entered.

" It has grown very dark," she said. " I think we shall
have a thunderstorm. It may have been the closeness of
the air that has made Pug so sleepy all day. It is time
to dress."

Olive got up.

" Very likely," she said. " I have all but finished the
fifth mat, and I shall be up to time if I get to the end of it
to-morrow."

" I am sure it must be the thunderstorm coming up that
makes Pug sleepy," said her mother. " I felt sleepy
myself, but I enjoyed my drive. The Park was very full.
I saw a great many people whom I knew. Some days one
sees a great many people one knows, and other days hardly
anybody. Margery was in the Row riding. It is very
odd to ride in the evening. I did not speak to her."

There was a slight pause.

" Did she see you ?" asked Olive.

CHAPTER X

Walter Morrison arrived in England on the first day of
August, travelling straight back from Athens, where
he was third secretary of Legation, without having en-
countered any inconvenience from the massacres, and
that sort of thing, which his mother had feared. The tall,
good-looking boy, quiet, serene, and practical in the con-
duct of life, had grown into a quiet, wholesome-looking
young man, the sort of man who, at a guess, would be
useful in panics and earthquakes. For it seemed clear at
a glance that his quietness was the legitimate expression
of strength, just as restlessness and violence are so often
the superficial sign of inborn weakness. By his face and
manner of movement it might have been reasonably
guessed that he was more than twenty-two — indeed, it
was true that his character had grown to greater breadth
than his figure, which was still notably slim and boyish.
But the possible danger of his growing into merely a pretty
and spoiled young man, alluded to in an earlier chapter
of this history, was already averted. His face had de-
veloped a certain firmness and gravity which redeemed
it from that risk, physically speaking, while psychologi-
cally it indicated that, in spite of his great good looks,
his youth, and his extremely prosperous circumstances,
there was somewhere a grit in his character that would
not easily be ground down into the pulp out of which
complacent and self-satisfied men are made.

His mother and Olive were at Ballards when he arrived

208

JUGGERNAUT 209

there late one night, and the former, after long processes
of absurd and silly thought, was prepared to give him a
quantity of rather erroneous information about Margery
and her married life, in case he wished to hear about her.
Walter, though he had been a very regular correspondent
to her during his year's absence from England, had given
no hint in his letters of the state of his feelings towards
Margery, but his mother felt herself competent to judge,
as soon as she saw him, whether he had got over his in-
explicable attachment to her or not. That attachment, she
felt, was the sohtary thing she did not understand about
Walter ; she beheved she knew all there was to be known
about him in every other respect. This happy conclusion
is often reached by those who are completely ignorant of
the topic they imagine that they are perfectly acquainted
with.

Walter had been his quiet, normal, cheerful self at
dinner, and his mother's eagle eye remarked both this and
the fact that he ate an excellent meal.

" How good house-food tastes after train-food !" he
said. " I came straight through by the Indian mail from
Brindisi ; two days of train-food, all a little gritty."

" They have a new cook at Elmhurst," said Olive in
a monotonous voice.

Mrs. Morrison tried to turn the subject ; her plan was
not to talk about Margery at all till she got her son alone
after dinner. To this end, she proposed to fix a headache
on to Olive about half-past nine. So with great prompti-
tude she said :

" Cooks are very hard to get this year. I am sure if
Mrs. Robson left us, I do not know where I should turn
for another. It is not so with footmen ; I have had two
second footmen leaving within the last six months, and
supplied their places without the least difficulty. Do
people have footmen in Athens, Walter ?"

14

210 JUGGERNAUT

Walter laughed.

" Dear mother, you will think of Athens as a sort of
barbarous town. It is not the least barbarous. I have
no doubt there are stillroom maids there. Yes, Olive, I
heard from Margery the day I left Athens, and she men-
tioned the fact of their new cook. He is a Frenchman,
and she says he considers them barbarous because they
will not eat snails. Margery writes exactly as she talks ;
one could fancy one heard her saying it all."

" She writes very untidily," said Olive. " I remember
receiving a note from her in June which was very difficult
to read. There was a blot, too, as big as a sixpence in
the middle of the page. I remember that, because I
bought a stylograph for her next day, which I shall give
her on her birthday."

" They have been down there all July, have they not ?"
asked he.

Mrs. Morrison gave up the attempt to shift the subject
away from Margery. Mentally also she discounted the
fact that Walter appeared cheerful and normal. He was
evidently thinking a great deal about Margery, and his
cheerfulness might be forced. She felt tremendously
acute in thinking of that ; his manner would have deceived
almost anybody but her.

" Yes, they went there on the last day of June,"
she said. " No, it would be the last day but two — thirty
days hath — yes, on the twenty-eighth, because that was
a Saturday, and we had dined there on the twentieth,
which I know was a Friday. It was very strange their
leaving London so suddenly "

" It was not sudden," said OHve. " Margery had told
us they were going at least a month before."

" That makes it no less strange. Olive dear, you are
looking as if one of your headaches were coming on. I
should advise you to go to bed very soon after diimer,

JUGGERNAUT 211

and I will send you up some phenacetin. Yes, such a
queer plan, and all the account of it that Margery could
give me — or perhaps I had better say all the account that
she did give me, though, pray, Walter, do not understand
me to mean that I accuse Margery of being secretive —
was that Arnold wanted to get on with his work. And
when I said that considering the Greeks and Romans had
waited two thousand years for Arnold to write about them
— I put it very strongly, just like that, so that she might
understand — there would be no harm in their waiting a
month more, she had nothing to say to it."

Walter laughed again.

" But surely it was not a question of how long they
could wait, but how long Arnold could wait," he said.
" If he was to wait a couple of thousand years, like them,
he probably would not get much work done."

Mrs. Morrison shook her head.

" It was not that," she said ; " it was the strangeness of
their going away in July. For Margery — I do not blame
her in the least, and I am sure I should have been doing
the same all those years, if it was not that my principles
tell me that life does not wholly consist in dances and
dinners and suppers — Margery was here, there, and every-
where, and her engagement-book was as big as an atlas.
The space of a single day, I am sure, would have served
me for a week, and Olive too, and such a whirl as we were
in all the time you never saw. Often and often I should
have cut short my drive, and rested before dinner instead,
if it had not been that I had to give Pug his airing. But
I do not pretend to understand Margery — indeed, I
scarcely set eyes on her. Olive and I dined there twice,
but she had no time to come to my musical party, though
she knew it must be about June 19. And then to leave
London in the thick of it all, and bury herself and Arnold
here in the country, and find nothing to say except that

212 JUGGERNAUT

he wanted to work, is a thing which is outside my com-
prehension, though it may only be that I am stupid.
But Olive thought it very strange, too, and, as a rule,
when Olive and I agree about a thing, you will not find
that we make many mistakes. Or perhaps Olive is very
stupid also. But if that is so, it is the first that I, for one,
have heard about it. Let us go into the drawing-room,
Olive, and Walter shall join us when he has drunk his wine."

Mrs. Morrison had worked her mind up into a species of
intermittent fever over the fact that Margery had left
town at the end of June. She thought a little about it
every day, which, so to speak, caused a slight rise in tem-
perature, but the attack really came on when she spoke
about it. She made a rule never to reconsider her con-
clusion, for she was one of those fortunate people who
say they have an instinct, so that they can judge people
at first sight correctly, and she had made up her mind in
the first instance that the Levesons' conduct was strange.
Nothing, therefore, could shake her conviction ; and since
the reason given her was, she thought, profoundly unsatis-
factory, she argued that there must be another. She had
made a guess or two about this, and prepared to tell Walter
what her private belief was, when she gave Olive the head-
ache she had already hinted at.

Walter very soon followed them, and found Olive
already immersed in woolwork, and his mother still, so
to speak, on the boil. But it was not quite time to give
Olive her headache yet, and, with great restraint, Mrs.
Morrison spoke of other topics.

" I do not know what your plans are, Walter," she said,
" and I hope you will go away where and when you
choose, and not consider us at all. Olive and I — don't we,
dear ? — intend to stop here all August and rest after the
fatigue of London. I don't suppose there was ever any-
thing like the bazaar on the twentieth seen in town, and

JUGGERNAUT 213

Olive dined out, and so did I after it, and went to Lady
Bracton's dance, who is an old friend, though that does
not make it less fatiguing. But I dare say you will not
find it very lively here " — there was intention in every
word Mrs. Morrison spoke to-night, and Bismarck, and
probably Machiavelli, must have turned in their graves
from green envy — " and no doubt you will go away and
pay some visits. But perhaps you will be back in Sep-
tember, when the partridges are fledged or ripe, or what-
ever you call it. As I say, I am afraid you will not find
it lively, with only Olive and me here, and Arnold shutting
himself up, and seeing nobody. At least, we called the
other day, and were told that nobody was in. I don't
for a moment say that it was otherwise, but since Margery
is my niece, it seemed a little odd,"

" Perhaps she was really out," suggested Walter.

" It may have been so, and I hope it was," said Mrs.
Morrison ; " but one cannot ask the footman, so I do not
think it was my fault. I was simply told that they were
all out. I have tried to imagine what they could find to
do, to be out at four o'clock of an afternoon, when, if it
was not actually raining, it seemed likely to rain, so that
probably they would not have ventured far. However,
that is none of my business, and if Margery chooses to
say she is out when she is in, it does not concern me. I
ask no questions, and shall not. Perhaps some day she will
explain to me without my asking them what she was doing
on that afternoon. But that, Walter, is all the distraction
you are likely to meet with here, to be told that Margery
and everybody else is out. And it is right to tell you, you
will find Arnold very much aged. He struck me as quite
an old man when we dined there on June 20. It was
evidently a great strain on him to come on to Lady
Bracton's dance afterwards, and everyone said how
changed he looked."

214 JUGGERNAUT

Walter was a patient and indulgent boy, and made all
due allowance for nonsense. But it was really impossible
not to ask a question here.

"Who said he looked changed?" he asked. "Were
they friends of his — I mean, people who knew him ?"

Mrs. Morrison smiled kindly.

" Dear boy," she said, " how can I be expected to re-
member who talked about Arnold more than a month
ago ? You do not know what London is, or how many
people we met and conversed with that evening."

Olive had stopped her work, and was looking at the
ceiling. Then she spoke quite quietly and acidly.

" It is odd you don't remember, mother," she said,
" because you told me that Lady Bracton's dance was a
mere mob, and that you didn't know anybody by sight.
You said that Margery should have introduced you to
people, although you did not wish to know any of them.
Who could it have been ? I am sure it was not me."

Mrs. Morrison faced round towards Olive. The clock
had already struck ten, and it was probably slow.

" No, dear," she said ; " since you say it was not you,
that is sufficient. But you are looking very tired ; I said
one of your dreadful headaches was coming on, and I am
sure it is so. The longer you sit up at night the more you
will suffer in the morning. Wish Walter good-night, dear,
and I will come to see how you are when I go to bed."

" But I have not got a headache," said Olive.

Then she became a shade more acid and obliging.

" But since you want to talk to Walter alone," she said,
" I will finish my wool in the smoking-room. Or, if Walter
wants to smoke, I will finish it here. If you would only
say what you wish, mother, I will fall in with it. But I
have not got a headache, and I do not want to go to bed."

This was tactless, but Mrs. Morrison had lots of tact.
It often seemed to her strange that Olive, who was like

JUGGERNAUT 215

her in many ways, should be so painfully dissimilar here.
Probably she took after her father. That likelihood
often presented itself to Mrs. Morrison as accounting in
her children for defects which she believed herself free
from. She believed herself free from a good number of
defects.

Olive did not often behave like this, and usually
accepted her headaches when she was given them. Mrs.
Morrison instantly concluded that she was bursting with
curiosity as to what she and Walter were going to talk
about. Tact was required.

" Well, dear, of course you shall do just as you please,
and sit up all night if you think it will do your headache
good," she said. " Walter, you will like to smoke, no
doubt, so pray go to the smoking-room when you feel
inclined, and I will come to wish you good-night when
Olive goes to bed. Till then I shall keep her company,
and chat to her while she does her work. Then we shall
all be happy and comfortable."

Olive was not gifted with sufhcient poignancy of nature
ever to wish to commit violent actions, and no desire to
stab her mother with her crochet-needle so much as
entered her head. She was only conscious of a mild
satisfaction that she could prevent her mother from talking
privately to Walter, but to gratify that it was necessary
that she should sit up, a thing that she did not want to do ;
for, though without headache, she was sleepy. So it was
not long before she said " Good-night " to her mother,
who thereupon joined Walter in the smoking-room.

" Olive has gone to bed," she said. " I always know
when she has a headache, and the worse it is the more
she denies it. She was quite short and irritable with me
to-night, but I do not blame her. One must have great
self-control not to be rendered peevish by pain. I hope
she may not lie awake half the night. Well, my dear, it

2i6 JUGGERNAUT

is nice to see you again, and I think you will find every-
thing in good order and well looked after."

Walter lit his cigarette with a great deal of care. It did
not burn quite evenly, and he took another match to it
before he replied.

" I am sure I shall," he said rather absently ; " and you
and Olive both look well, too. Now, do tell me more
about Margery."

This was satisfactory ; it was better he should ask.

" Well, dear, I have mentioned, have I not ? that extra-
ordinary plan of hers of leaving London in July ? Yes.
No doubt you will find her, if you see her, a good deal
changed. To my mind, there was always something
flighty about her, and really her head seems to have been
turned. She thinks about nothing but her balls and her
parties. I should not be surprised if Arnold was bitterly
disappointed in his marriage. I have even wondered if
he was not ashamed of the way she went on to London,
and so took her away."

Walter threw away the cigarette over which he had
taken such pains.

" Do you mean that she is not happy ?" he asked.

There was something of anxiety, of suspense, in his
tone that for the moment checked his mother's garrulous
belittling of Margery, and pierced through all the unreal
imagining and foolish inventions of her own mind which
already deceived herself. There was no mistaking his
tone ; he asked a question which interested him vitally —
it was no chance, wayside interrogation. The voice that
asked it cared. And superficial, insincere, and ignorant of
all great and deep things as she was, it troubled her. She
wanted Walter's happiness ; she wanted him also to marry
(especially if he married " well," as she called it). And
she was afraid he was still thinking about Margery.

But there the incomparable limitation of her nature

JUGGERNAUT 217

came in, and she judged that by far the best thing she
could do was, by wealth of vague fabrications, to convince
him how little worthy was Margery of his anxiety or care.
The subject fired her, for, with a good object in view-
namely, Walter's disillusionment— she could discharge
all her petty spite. And, as a fine nature, under the
kindling of enthusiasm, will outsoar itself, so she dropped
below herself with this admixture of maternal affection
for her son and spiteful dislike of Margery to inspire
her.

" I do not think for a moment that she is not happy,"
she said. " It is true that I saw but httle of her in Lon-
don, for with all her new fine friends she found little time
for us, but when I did see her she seemed to be in the best
spirits. No, poor fellow, it was of him I was thinking.
Margery " — and she brought the words out with papal
authority — " has a shallow nature. Now, he has not ;
however he may have behaved to poor Olive, I do not
accuse him of shallowness, for look at all the thought and
care he spends over the history of the Greeks and Romans.
Not that she has not often shown cunning — I always
knew she was cunning — for look at the way she flattered
him over that Egyptian book until he thought that she
was interested, and gave her a copy. That was the
beginning of her pursuit of him. But cunning often goes
with shallowness. And, as if that were not enough, look
at the way she treated you, drawing you on, making up
to you — for you were but a boy, and a generous and warm-
hearted one always — so that in case her schemes about
Arnold went wrong "

But Walter had had enough. His mother's zeal had
left discretion out of sight. This last accusation against
Margery was as infamous and as false as Satan. His
whole honest soul burst into flame at the wanton insult.
And by the light of that he judged the rest of his mother's

2i8 JUGGERNAUT

speech, and estimated the truth of it. And the strength of
his feehng made his quietness the deeper.

" Ah, I think you had better stop," he said. " It
would be wiser not to say any more, mother, because I
want to forget that it is you who have said what you have
just said. It is not the case that Margery drew me on,
made up to me — that, and all the rest. I do not want a
single further word on the subject, and I wiU not listen
to one."

Walter moved across to the table where stood soda-
water and whisky, and as he poured himself out some the
lip of the bottle clattered against the glass, for his hand
was trembling. That was the only sign that he showed
of his white-hot indignation, and his mother (with all her
knowledge of him) utterly missed it all.

" WeU, to be sure !" she said ; " you ask me about
Margery, and before I've told you half you say you won't
listen to another word "

" That is so," said he quietly. " Shall we talk about
something else ? Or, it is late already, and I think after
two nights in the train I shall go to bed."

Then the inherent gentleness in his nature, the com-
passion that simple-hearted people have for those who,
like spiders, spin bitter webs out of their own imaginings,
the pity of the kind and strong for those who are malicious
only out of a sort of vacuous malice, came to his aid.
There was no good in being angry ; besides, she was his
mother.

" And to-morrow I must make my plans, mother dear,"
he said. " I think I shall stop here for most of my leave,
for I shall find plenty to do. I want to see all that has
been going on in the farm and the woods."

He kissed his mother.

" I thought you would want to do that," she said,
again triumphing in her own thoughtfulness, " and I

JUGGERNAUT 219

have told the agent to be here by eleven to-morrow
morning."

Walter meant to ride over to see Margery to-morrow,
but there was no need to say that just now. He lit her
candle for her, and they went upstairs.

Margery, much as she had enjoyed the riotous weeks in
town, had spent a delicious July in the quiet of the country,
for she had by no means left her faculty for enjoyment
behind in the deserted house in Portman Square. Arnold's
mother had been with them for a week, and was coming
again during the course of August, but otherwise she had
seen practically nobody except her husband, and for a
large part of the day had seen nothing of him. That was
just as it should be. They had come down here in order
that he should get some weeks of uninterrupted work,
and it was her business to give him the conditions he
needed. But she had not quite known how serious and
secluded an affair his work was, and at the beginning it
had been necessary for her to adjust her ideas a little on
the subject. In her mind she had pictured herself spend-
ing the mornings and the hours of his industry (in the
intervals of the piano-practice which she had laid down
for herself) with him in his study, looking out references
for him, watching the progress of his pages, seeing the
flawless paragraphs come hot from the mint of his ex-
quisite mind. For a morning or two she had followed her
pictured ideal, playing a little, then perhaps going to him
bright-eyed and silent to put some fresh flowers on his
table, or to settle herself in the window-seat to read the
paper, retailing to him any scraps that she thought would
interest him. Another day she had established herself
on a corner of his work-table, and wrote her letters there
with busy, scratching pen and borrowings of his blotting-
paper.

220 JUGGERNAUT

It was on this particular morning during the first week
that they were there that she had to readjust her notions.

" Seven letters since breakfast !" she said triumphantly.
" It does make me so industrious when I see somebody
else working too. How are you getting on, dear ?"

Arnold at the moment was trying to remember three
separate pages he wished to turn to, and Margery's inter-
ruption made him forget them aU. A little impatient click
of his tongue on his teeth escaped him.

" Darling, it is delightful, quite delightful, to have you
here," he said, " but do you mind not talking ? I have
to look up the index again. No, I'm not getting on very
well."

" Oh, let me look it up for you," said Margery.

" No, you can't, thanks," said he rather sharply.

Margery looked at him a moment in silence, all her love
for him quickening her comprehension. But she waited
till he had finished a note he was making. Then she
spoke.

" Oh, Arnold," she said, " wiU you promise to tell me
the truth?"

" Yes, dear, certainly," he said. (Margery thought he
had finished making his note, but he. had not.)

" Well, then, would you rather I didn't come in here
and sit with you ?" she said. " Do I disturb you by being
here ?"

" Yes, dear, you do," he said.

" Oh, I am sorry. I thought we were having such a
nice time. And what a silly boy you are not to have told
me sooner. Good-bye, till lunch."

" Margery, you don't mind, do you ?" he asked.

" I only mind my having been such a goose," she said.

There was further enlightenment yet to come. She
asked after his progress at lunch, hoping that her removal
of herself would have helped matters.

JUGGERNAUT 221

" No, I seem to have stuck rather," he said. " Or
perhaps it is that I have not made a real beginning yet."

He paused a moment.

" What was that dehcious thing you had such a good
practice at this morning ?" he asked.

Again love prompted her, and from that day her piano
was dumb. He did not allude to its cessation, though
she hoped he would, for she felt quite certain that he had
noticed it. But she told herself it was exigeante of her to
expect it. It was enough that she could remove all hin-
drances without having the service acknowledged. She
might, so she told herself, as well expect him every day
to thank her for ordering dinner.

The book on which Arnold was engaged was designed to
be on a scale far exceeding anything he had yet done, for
it was to be on " The Age of Pericles," compared to which
the Alexandrian volume was but a sketch, a study. He
had already shelves of note-books filled with patient
scholarly work on the various branches of his subject :
notes on the political history, notes on the drama, on the
arts, on the myriad petals, so to speak, that went to make
up that wonderful and perfect flower. Already by the
end of the month he had set up the skeleton of his work ;
and the grouping of chapters, with the mere enumeration
of their contents, was no thin harvest for those weeks.
Then would come the patient cataloguing of the notes,
the authorities, the references which must contribute to
each separate one of those numerous headings ; they — as
he explained to Margery — were the muscles and sinews of
his figure ; then, last of all, like the smooth shining skin
swelling and falling, lying in myriad beautiful curves, each
representing muscle and bone in the structure beneath,
would come the writing of the book. How long would it
take ? He could not possibly tell.

And so the month had passed ; the bones had been

222 JUGGERNAUT

knitted together, and the work of the muscle-building was
beginning. As has been said, Margery had to adjust her
original conception of the manner of her days ; she had
also to learn, and had learned without any touch of bitter-
ness, what a tremendous hold his work had on him. It
seemed completely to absorb him, and after those months
when he had been so thoroughly absorbed in her the
change was rather violent. She would not have had it
different, for it was Arnold all the time ; only — only she
had thought of that book which he had given her, as
being not the patient, absorbed, laborious building that
it was, but as just the shower of iridescent drops that
some swift-winged water-bird throws off as it rises into
the air. It had seemed just the emanation, the uncon-
scious aura, of his mind when it dwelt on the days of
Theocritus, or at the most its honey, the glad romantic
harvesting of its bees. But it could not really have been
so ; it was the endless, patient labour of that mind ; the
grim, daylong toil of its honey-seekers.

In all this there was nothing that could really trouble
her, and she spent a delicious July, self-effacing and con-
tent. One thing alone sometimes moved with disquieting
steps in the sweet shady places of her mind, and that was
the recollection of a day when he had told her how she
herself had at first been to him no more than one of his
Tanagra figurines, how by degrees she had grown incarnate
to him, and had, as by the sun's rays, put to flight the
classical shadows where he had dwell. But now and
then (though as often as it occurred she banished the idea)
she found herself wondering if those classical shadows
were not trooping up again. This did not represent itself
to her in any light of neglect ; it was simply that his work
absorbed him. What work, too ! More beautiful, per-
haps, than ever to her to her she knew how much, how
essentially his work was himself — no airy shaken shower

JUGGERNAUT 223

of wings, but the patient and fragrant harvest of untiring,
daylong quests. In matter of brain and production it
was certainly summer for him (now that she had learned
not to sit in his room, or play the piano while he was at
work), and it was Httle wonder that he and his working-
bees were busy with the gathering of the honey. It was
for their queen — so she loyally phrased it to herself — that
they were gathering it. The work of his brain was hers,
for he was hers body and soul ; all that he garnered,
pushing busily among his books, as they among flowers,
came home to her, whether he knew it or not. Some time
he would know it, when the honey was gathered, the book
written, for he would find it written in her heart. The
passion of the scholar, the hunt for honey, all came back
to the hive.

It was with no effort that Margery imagined these
things ; it required no effort for her to think of herself as
sitting at home, busy with the household affairs, while
he, absorbed in his work, pursuing it with the blind in-
stinct of the bee, really brought it all home to her. Nor
did it require more effort to banish the thought of the
classical shades trooping back again. She was his wife,
the chosen one of his brain no less than his heart. And
she looked forward, with a poignant expectancy that
altogether banished the filmy notion that she was under-
going a temporary banishment, to the time when the brain
and muscles of the book would be in place, and evening
by evening she would hear what had been written, see
that supple skin that clothed muscle and bone. And
what added to the sweetness of that expectation was the
knowledge that she herself contributed to it. For in a
drawer of that working-table of his were little slips of
paper, on each of which was written some vivid phrase
that had by chance found utterance and was noted down.
Often it was his own sentence that took his fancy when it

224 JUGGERNAUT

was said — a sentence that came from his mouth by chance
when they were riding together. Such phrases were of
common occurrence : " The faded green of the sun-fatigued
downs " was an instance. He had said it quite naturally
and spontaneously as they crossed on their homeward
journey a broad back of Surrey hills. Then he had said :
" Can you remember that, Margery ? I should like to
put it in the phrase-drawer." The place was familiar
to her by his account ; for a drawer in his table was full
of such little paper slips, and in the writing of his book
they, as he told her, were constantly spread out before
him, so that when some such expressive turn was needed
he glanced at them, often finding something that fitted
the need. There were many of her phrases there ; she
loved to think that they might appear in the golden para-
graphs, might be tesserae in the exquisite mosaic of his
writing.

But all the time, though the book progressed, and the
phrases accumulated, though all her desire was set on his
desire, she had been rather lonely. There was no need
for her to tell herself that in every way she loved to serve
in the making of this book, for it was suf(icient for her to
be told by him that she surrounded him with conditions
for work that were ideal. To her the satisfaction at that
absolutely overruled all other considerations. But, pro-
vided it did not disturb him, or upset the exquisite equili-
brium, she would have been glad of more human inter-
course. His mother had been here for a week, and during
those days, so long as Arnold's book went well, Margery
wanted nothing more. But for the last fortnight she had
scarcely spoken a word to a living soul except her husband
and the servants. Once a couple of neighbours had come
to lunch, at her invitation, but even that a little upset
Arnold, for they had stayed on talking, and he had not
been able to go out with her for their ride at the usual

JUGGERNAUT 225

hour. Yet there had been soul-manna to her in that also,
for when eventually they set off he had said, " I never
want to see anybody but you." How infinitely the
sweetness of that outweighed the fact that she would have
rather liked to see other people.

Margery was sitting this morning beneath the big elms
at the end of the lawn, with a couple of collies, rather
prostrated with the heat, lying panting by her. The day
was still and windless, so that no whisper of movement
came from the towers of close-growing leaf above her, but
all round the full chorus of summer was open-throated.
She had sent out a table and chair, with the design of
answering her morning's letters, but as yet she had not
set to work. Above she was shielded by the elms, and
a thicket of syringa lay between her and the drive that
led to the house, while in front stretched the yellowing
grass of the lawn, and beyond this lay blazing flower-beds,
which ran below the drawing-room and Arnold's study.
Even from here she could hear the continuous murmur
of the bees busy in the open chalices of the flowers, and
butterflies poised and sipped where the bees burrowed and
stored. There was but little bird music in the air, but
from some tree in the field beyond the lawn a couple of
pigeons made guttural caressing moans. Jack and Jill,
the two colhes lying by her, panted with drooping tongues,
raised chins, and half-closed eyes, like twin steam-engines.
For a few breaths they would keep admirable time ; then
Jill, hotter than her friend, or less voluminous-lunged,
gained a little, and after another dozen or so of pants
would be in time with Jack again. All these things Mar-
gery noticed lazily and contentedly ; they were all good,
safe sights and sounds, charged with the feeling of home,
but, lazy and content though she was, she would have
liked somebody to be lazy with. A httle while ago she
had heard the muffled beat of a cantering horse's hoofs

15

226 JUGGERNAUT

on the rough grass on the farther side of the drive, but
had not troubled to look through the screen of syringa
to see who it was.

And then there came the sound of a foot on the crisp
gravel, that somehow arrested her attention, for it was
strangely famihar, and next moment round the clump of
sweet flowering bushes came Walter. Then, with both
hands outstretched, she rose quickly, upsetting her chair.

" Walter, Walter dear !" she cried.

" Why, Margery !" he said.

He held both those dear hands of hers a moment.

" They told me you were out here," he said, " so I came
to see. And I've found you again."

Jack and Jill had risen too, and made a circle of polite
but careful inquiry round him. They decided he would
do well enough, and lay down to pant again.

" You came back when ? Yesterday ?" asked she.
" It was dear of you to come over and see me at once.
How brown and strong you look ! Oh, Walter, it is good
to see you."

" Thanks ever so much. And Arnold ? Aren't I to
see him ?"

" Not now ; you are to see me. It's sacred work-time,
and I don't teU him even if there are earthquakes. Such
a book as it's going to be. I am so proud of it."

" Are you alone ?" asked he.

" Yes, and dreadfully glad I'm not alone this minute.
I'm going to talk to you the whole morning."

" And I shall stop to lunch, please."

Margery's eyes clouded ; they then appealed.

" I'm going to say something dreadful," she said.
" But promise not to mind. I'm not sure if you can stop
to lunch. This is what happened : the other day two or
three people came to lunch, and they remained talking,
and Arnold couldn't get out for our ride till late, and his

JUGGERNAUT 227

work was upset. But let us wait till one. Arnold stops
working at one, and we shall see at once. I dare say he
will want you to stop. Oh, Walter, it's only because you
are such a dear that I tell you that. If you weren't, I
should instantly ask you to stop, and apologise to Arnold
afterwards, if necessary."

He laughed.

" What a lot of words !" he said. " Of course I under-
stand. And I wouldn't upset Arnold's work for the world.
He wouldn't like the sight of me, or want me to come
again. That would never do !"

" Not for me," said Margery. " Oh dear, I am glad
you have come. I didn't want a solitary morning in the
least, and as for all the letters I meant to answer "

Margery shut them up in her blotting-book, and firmly
and decisively strapped it up.

" So much for them," she observed.

Walter had seated himself on the grass by her chair, in
these first moments feeling nothing except that it was just
everything to be with Margery again. Often during this
last year he had pictured to himself his next meeting with
her, and though he had never ceased to long for it, he
had always dreaded it. He had left England some months
before her marriage, and knew that when he saw her next
she would be another man's wife, and he could make no
guess how hard to bear, how bitter even, that might be.
Often he had wondered whether it would be wiser not to
see her again for the present, or only in such public ways
as could prevent the old intimacy, its growing desires,
and its frustrated hopes, establishing itself again, and
often he had told himself that such was the clear injunc-
tion of prudence and wisdom. Yet all the time he knew
well what was the magnet that so constantly pulled him
homewards, the invisible sweet face stretching overseas
and laying hands on him in the town of blue sky and

228 JUGGERNAUT

white marble, and how much stronger and more com-
pelHng was that than all the maxims of prudence. And,
behold, it proved that prudence (or so he thought now) was
but a cautious and timorous counsellor, full of fears where
no fear was ; for here was he now flying straight in the face
of its dried admonitions, as he sat on the grass at Margery's
feet, and there was nothing hard to bear, nothing bitter
at all ; it was only unutterably sweet to be with her again.
She was just Margery — Margery, the friend of his soul,
who, as he well knew, had so deep and tender an affection
for him.

" Well, so that's done," he said. " Now you may
begin ; tell me all about it."

She laughed. This had been the invariable formula
when he returned home from Eton for the holidays.

" Oh, a ripping time," she said, falling back into the old
words. " Absolutely A i. And if this morning I had
been given my choice as to who should come to see me, it
would have been you, you, you ; first, second, and third.
I had a tremendous time in town ; I had no idea there
were so many nice people in the world. Then we came
down here, and Arnold has been working. There's simply
nothing to tell you ; it's all so good. You next."

" Also A I. Everyone friendly and kind, and you
never saw anything half so funny as the Athens golf links
and the Athenian players. Mixed foursomes chiefly, with
heaps of conversation. She taps the ball gently from the
tee, and everyone says, ' Mon Dieu, quel drive ! Magni-
fique !' And then we have tea. Oh, but such a place,
Margery ; you never saw such beauty, and I'm getting
quite a professional at temples, architrave, peritonitis — •
no, not quite that ; peristasis, I think — metope, triglyph,
all the whole show. You and Arnold must really come
out and see me."

" But the very thing," said she. " Why, it's Pericles

JUGGERNAUT 229

he is working on. Oh, Walter, it's going to be so good.
He's building, building. How heavenly it must be to
create hke that ! And he makes music out of history.
And I am glad you have had a nice time," she added,
with an inconsequence that was superficial only.

The morning passed but too quickly, and Margery was
incredulous when she heard the stable clock strike one,
and shortly after saw her husband coming across the lawn
to find her. He was genuinely pleased to see Walter,
and mingled with his pleasure was a kindly, delicate pity
for the young man, who had ridden over on the very first
morning at home to see his wife. It did not strike him
as wise, for the very haste and immediateness of the visit
showed the fact that this was unwisdom ; but it was
youthful, eager, and unthinking. He was pleased for
Margery's sake, too ; she was evidently overjoyed to see
her friend again. Then, surprised that she had not al-
ready asked him to lunch, he gave the invitation himself,
and as they were to stroll for half an hour, she went back
to the house to fetch her hat, for he would not let her
expose her head to the glare, and she left the two together.

" So you have come from Athens, you lucky fellow,"
he said. " I would have given a great deal to have half
an hour in Athens this morning. One's eyes are so much
more informing than fifty maps to scale. Really, I think
I must get out there in the autumn. How do you think
Margery looks ?"

" Never seen her looking better," said Walter ; " and
never happier."

" I am glad you think so. Are you going to stop at
Ballards some time ?"

" Most of my leave, I expect. The best part of two
months."

" You must come over often, very often, then," he said.
" As Margery will probably have told you, I am working

230 JUGGERNAUT

hard, and she sees nobody. You can well understand how
disturbing strangers are when one is in the throes of
production. And though I don't think she feels lonely —
for I really believe she is as interested in my book as I am
— companionship is a natural need. So do come just
when you feel inclined, if you will give me the luxury of
not treating you hke a stranger, and doing my work and
taking exercise at regular hours."

The speech was sufficiently cordial and welcoming. It
showed thought, too, for Margery. But it struck Walter
that it showed more thought for himself — showed it in-
stinctively, unconsciously, as if it was a habit.

CHAPTER XI

It was the last day of August— a hot, still morning very
like that on which, nearly a month ago, Walter had
made his first appearance at Elmhurst. Since then he
had not hesitated to take advantage of the cordiality of
his welcome, and the days on which he had not met
Margery had been few, and the days on which he had met
Arnold had been only slightly less numerous. Through-
out he had behaved hke the simple honest soul that he
was : he knew himself to be in love with Margery ; he
knew her to be in love with her husband, and accepted
the situation in the true sense of the word. These things
were so ; to meddle with them, even in thought, was a
kind of sacrilege, and he accepted them not with resigna-
tion— a poor quality, in his opinion — but with an eager
desire to make the most of them, to extract from them,
not for himself only, nor for himself first, but for IMargery
and hun, the final ounce of happiness which they were
capable of yielding. He knew correctly, neither more
nor less, the quality of Margery's affection for him, and he
neither strained nor starved it. On the one hand, that is
to say, he never hinted at, or let appear in the most
remote horizon of their intercourse, his love for her — he
tried with all the struggling fibres of his being to bring
back the " note " of his boyish affection for her, since that
was best suited to her feeling for him. The natural in-
evitable deepening of age had been added to it, but,
limpet-like, he clave to that rock, for that was the best

231

232 JUGGERNAUT

he could do. To hint at, to imply for a moment, the sweet
impossible " might have been " was to strain her affec-
tion and make her sorry. On the other hand, he did not
starve it, though in certain ways that would have been
the easier course. For it was so easy to starve it. He
had but to stop away, to fail to take advantage of his
welcome to Elmhurst, while he still stayed at home, and
she must have understood. But he steered for the narrow
straits, avoiding Scylla and Charybdis, not letting his love
be manifest to her, either by direct sign, or by the no less
unmistakable indirectness of banishing himself.

But it must not be supposed that he was without his
consolations. To him, to the quality of his love, the best
possible — seeing that things were as they were, and not
otherwise — was to see her, to talk with her, to be on the
dear familiar terms. There was pain in it all, but he
accepted that, deciding, as he had every right to do,
that that concerned him alone, provided only he quite
concealed from her the uncomfortable appearance which
his pain would have presented. And the attitude was
not bloodless, though the rough-and-ready methods of
ignorant people might have condemned it as such. The
rough-and-ready method would have prompted him to
say : " I love you, and if you don't love me, I will shoot
grouse. Yes or no." Another method, only slightly less
rough and ready, would have been to absent himself, and
let her draw inevitable conclusions. But he did neither.
He made himself the Walter of old days, and saw much of
his friend Margery. But for him it was no bloodless pose ;
daily and nightly he bled with it. But his blood was his
own, and he chose to spend it.

Private, too, was the expense ; for Margery, absorbed
as she certainly was in Arnold, never guessed it. It was
a triumph of dissimulation on his part. There was never
less of a coquette than she ; she saw only her dear friend,

JUGGERNAUT 233

one who had once wanted to be much more to her, return-
ing as her dear friend, ripened, softened, she knew not
what, but no other than the old dear Walter. And, con-
sidering the skill with which he played this difficult,
dangerous game, it was no wonder that she was deceived.
Her affection was his, though her heart was her husband's,
and through all these August days she never guessed that
it was not a smooth boyish mouth that spoke to her of
present interests and renewed memories, but the heart of
a man that so shrewdly hid itself, and borrowed the mask
of his own face to use and to speak through.

Naturally there were hours for Walter, many of them,
when he could not help reviewing the whole situation,
and wondering whether it would not be better — not wiser
merely — to cut off the unravelled thread, instead of
strengthening it. And in these reflections Margery's
husband had necessarily to be a figure of prominence, he
and his book and his quiet, uninterrupted mornings, and
his punctual ride, and all the protective apparatus with
which he must be surrounded in order that he should
produce an affair of a few hundred pages, with which so
small a section even of the world which called itself culti-
vated would ever concern itself. Sometimes the notion
enraged him, when he fancied to himself the idea of being
Margery's husband, and letting anything else in the world
concern him. Who was Pericles ? What did the ancient
Athenians matter to one who had Margery for wife ? It
might have been excusable for himself to attempt, with
however small success, to fuddle his brain with learning,
since the one great thing was denied him, but by what
possible code of reasoning could a man who loved Margery
neglect her — for it came to no less than that — for the pur-
suit of dry knowledge and wandering about in the age of
Pericles instead of living in his own age of gold ? Margery
was less controlled an actor than Walter, and it was

234 JUGGERNAUT

abundantly plain to him, as those hot weeks of August
ran their course, that she had lonely hours, though fewer
now that he was here. But if Margery had been his, he
knew that if there was any desire for lonely hours, the
request for them would have come from her.

And then in intervals he did better justice to Arnold,
and saw, surprising as it may sound, that in certain essen-
tials he was a great man. Those six months of idleness
from work, whch Margery had told him of, showed that he
was in love with her, and that he was in love with her still
he had no reason to doubt. But Arnold was in love with
learning ; he, though Margery was his wife, could arrange
his day for the pursuit of knowledge. Soldier, sailor,
student, whatever a man was, he was right to do his work.
There was Nelson and Lady Hamilton. If he had been a
small man, he would have let Trafalgar take care of itself.
It was because he was big that he put his work before his
love. Love would always take care of itself. . . . Yet
not that. Love was itself ; light shone, and meantime
work had to be done, whether it was patriotic, or classical,
or historical. The important thing was to believe in it.
And only the big folk of the world believed in it. Others
would work for other reasons, because they were paid to
work, because from its successful accomplishment they
got honour and orders, and glory and garters, or, on a
higher plane, because they brought territory to their
country, and planted the flag in unreasonably inaccessible
places. Yet there was a higher plane even than that :
there were those who worked for love of knowledge, who
explored, not to gain territory for themselves, or even for
others, but to show its existence merely. Those were the
great ones, and though to Walter the age of Pericles meant
no more than the existence of certain most picturesque
ruins, and the survival of certain plays, he saw that to
Arnold there was some remote quarry there, which he

JUGGERNAUT 235

pursued in ardent, lonely, single-handed chase. He would
have pursued it with the same ardour, Walter felt sure, if
his work were never to see the light — if he was never, con-
tinuing the metaphor, to bring back into the market-
place the skins of unknown birds, the horns of uncon-
jectured animals. It was there that he was great, and
thus it was to no second-rate achiever that Margery
subordinated herself. Besides, she loved him ; there the
last word was said.

So he did Arnold full justice ; his justice, if anything,
erred on the side of generosity, for, granting him greatness
in respect of his devotion to an idea, he was willing to
cancel from the other side a hundred littlenesses. Arnold's
single and simple aim excused them, and if he was need-
lessly careful about not exerting himself too much in their
rides during the afternoon for fear it would fatigue him
and prevent his giving his acutest attention to his work
after tea, if he pondered as to whether cream did not
" upset " him, if he was over-careful in his wish that
Margery and Walter should not play croquet below his
windows, since he could not help waiting for the sound of
the impact of ball and mallet, these meticulous trifles
were all connected with the single idea. And if he let
Margery look after and amuse herself all July, not allowing
her to have guests in the house because they would upset
the Medi-Persian regularity of his day, this, though most
inhuman, most unlover-like, was still intelligible and con-
sistent.

Such, in brief, had been the psychic atmosphere of
Elmhurst all August, and the month had passed, so to
speak, without gales or storms of any kind. Once or
twice; but not oftener, Margery had been over to Ballards,
but even that had been hard to arrange. Arnold alto-
gether refused to dine out in the evening, and it was im-
possible for Margery to leave him alone. Nor could he

236 JUGGERNAUT

get over there for lunch, since in order to do that he would
have to stop work before one, if he rode there, while if he
motored, he would get no stroll before lunch, and no ride
afterwards. And, again, she could not leave him to stroll
and lunch and ride alone. Once or twice she had let him
look after himself for an hour or two, but it was not an ex-
periment to repeat. And if she was wrong in not having
a little independence, in not taking a little liberty, and at
the same time giving him a chance to be rather more
manly and self-reliant in such minutise, it was because she
loved him, and could not bear that in any way, even in
the fringes and skirts of conduct, her self-surrender to him
should be less than complete. And to her nature it was,
as it were, an exquisite self-indulgence, a priceless luxury,
to be to him all that she could in things great and minute
alike. Yet there was no such scale really, for all the acts
done in the service of love are equal. The cup of cold
water is no less than the giving of the body to be burned.

And if occasionally, occasionally and vaguely, she felt
(though only to dismiss the thought) as if he put his work,
though only now and only temporarily, before her, she
had for the last week or two been cherishing a secret of
overpowering sweetness — a charm which, when he knew it,
would surely cause him to show, if only by a word or a
look, how utterly mistaken any such fugitive imagina-
tions were. But she had to be certain of the genuineness
of her secret first, and on this last morning of August she
was certain. She knew.

Arnold had gone to his work as usual at ten, for his old
custom of beginning at half-past had been abandoned
owing to the stress and ardour of this new book, in favour
of an extra half-hour, and Margery had asked Dr. Appleby
to come to see her at half-past ten, so that Arnold should
not know of his visit, for he would then be immersed in
his work. By soon after eleven the doctor had gone again,

JUGGERNAUT 237

and Margery, dim-eyed and smiling, her heart full of a
happiness transcending all thought, all imagination, sat for
a little while alone in her bedroom, letting the glow, the
joy of what she had been told sink into herself, before she
went to Arnold. Never for more than six weeks now
had she or anyone gone into his room during these sacred
hours, and she pictured to herself how he would look up,
surprised certainly, and (she almost hoped) vexed at her
interruption. Perhaps she would even tease him for a
moment or two first, say she had just come in to see how
he was getting on, and would he not leave his work and
play croquet with her ? How he would stare, frown, open
his eyes in sheer wonder ! And then she would run to
him, hide her face on his shoulder, and tell him. ... If
ever during these months she had thought herself a little
neglected, how in that moment would he wipe clean from
her mind any possibility of such thought ! To-day, too,
Walter was coming over to lunch. But she and Arnold
would have their secret from him. Even Walter must
not know.

Soon she went downstairs. All was as silent in the
house as if it had been the timeless hour before dawn, but
through the open doors and open window there poured in
the warm fragrance of the flowering and fruitful summer
and west wind, into which had been distilled the smell of
newly-mown grass, of crimson rose, of sweet-peas, and all
the scents of the summer garden. Not far from the
front-door was a clump of pines ; their keen aroma was
mingled there too. Margery drank a couple of long
breaths of it in ; then she opened the door of Arnold's
study (and even as she opened it, a sense of most remote
aloofness seemed to come out) and entered.

So absorbed was he that he did not notice the opening
of the door, and Margery was half-way across the room
before he looked up. And, having looked up and seen

238 JUGGERNAUT

her he looked back instantly to his paper, on which he
was copying out a couple of references from one of his
note-books.

" Surely it is not one yet ?" he asked.

"No, Arnold," said she, abandoning the idea of teasing
him first.

" You want to speak to me ?" he said, still not looking
up, but going on with his writing. " What is it then,
dear ?"

Margery had come close to him, and laid her head on
his shoulder.

" Ah, please stop writing a moment !" she said.

" I am attending to you, my dear," he said, but without
stopping.

He did not know yet ; it was not as if he knew. She
knelt down by him, and pressed her face to his arm.

" Arnold, I am with child," she said. " God is sending
us a child."

There were but three figures more to copy ; he had
already written down Soph. (Ed. Col, and he added the
number of the line, 668. Then he laid down his pen on
the blotting-paper.

" My darling," he said, " that is beautiful news. Dear
me ! Beautiful news. You must give me a kiss."

He turned sideways from his table, but did not get up,
and, taking her face in his hands, kissed her twice very
tenderly.

" You have seen Dr. Appleby ?" he asked. " You are
quite certain ?"

She still hoped that some sign would come, some word,
some glance from him to show her that in his heart, as in
her own, the glory and wonder of her news made morning.
She nodded her head to him in answer, and waited.

He gave one quick glance at the clock, then looked
back to her again.

JUGGERNAUT 239

" And how delighted mother will be !" he added.

She got up, and walked across to the chimney-piece,
her heart still full to bursting, still waiting for him, so to
speak, to unlock its sluice-gates, and let the joy pour out,
overwhelming him, drowning him. There, with her back
to him, she waited, thinking that in a moment she must
feel his arms round her, hear but one word, a whisper
perhaps, and know that her heart could discharge itself
into his. Then he spoke.

" I am overjoyed, overjoyed !" he said. " Will you
send a line to mother ? She would like to know at once."

And then Margery heard the turning over of the leaf
of some book.

At that a sudden bitterness rose within her, sharp and
acid, taking its quality from the strength of her joy.

" I am sorry to have interrupted you !" she said. " I
will go now."

" But, my darling, what a delicious interruption !" he
said. " I should have been quite hurt if you had not told
me the moment you knew. We must have a great talk
about it all this evening. Thank you, my dearest, for
telling me at once !"

Margery left the room quietly, and stood for a minute
in the hall outside, still beheving that the door of his study
must open, that he must come out, and say or do some-
thing, she knew not what, that would open their hearts
to each other. And behef died into hope, and then hope
passed away also. Within his room it was quite still ;
all the house was still, and he was working.

She went out to her customary seat under the shade of
the solemn elms, and sat down there. She asked herself
if she was unreasonable, if she expected something that
it was not in a man's nature to give her. Was fatherhood
so hugely less than motherhood as that, that sort of kiss,
that assurance that he was overjoyed, and that his mother

240 JUGGERNAUT

would be delighted ? How could he so much as think of
his mother at that moment ? and how — how could he,
while the news was still not more than a couple of minutes
old, turn over the leaf of one of his books ? Worst of all,
he had taken her bitter remark that she was sorry she
had interrupted him quite literally, and had assured her
she need feel no compunction on that score. If he only
had said, " How dare you say that !" she would have
known how just his reproach was, and welcomed it. And
he proposed to have a great talk over it this evening !
There was no need ; he might spare himself the pains,
for there was nothing more to say. She had told him ; he
had answered her. Perhaps, after all, that was all that it
could mean to a man. If that was so, the whole world
might know — Aunt Aggie, Mrs. Leveson, Olive, Walter,
the cook, the gardener. There was no sweet secret to keep.

Even yet she could hardly believe it, and, leaving her
place, she went down the flower-border that lay below
his windows, keeping on the edge of the grass so that he
should not hear her footsteps, to see if indeed he was
working quietly, industriously as usual. His table was
set at an angle to the light, so that it came from his left,
and as she passed the first window she had but a back
view of him. The fingers of his left hand held back the
leaves of some big volume which the breeze would have
wished to turn over for him, his head was bent, and his
right hand busy. But as she passed the second window,
he looked up and saw her.

" My darling, is it wise to walk in the sun without a
hat ?" he called out. " Pray, to please me, go and put
one on."

And then as she answered him, retracing her steps, the
thrice blessed sense of humour, which she by no means
lacked, came to her aid, and with it a sudden contrition
for her own ingratitude.

JUGGERNAUT 241

She really was a humorous figure, with her prowlings
and noiseless footsteps, humorous, too, was the contrast
of his real care and tenderness for her with something
ecstatic and quite vague, which she had allowed herself
to expect. But her contrition was the stronger of the
forces, and her involuntary smile at herself quite died
away. She, ungrateful little brute, was to be given the
crown of her sex and her womanhood, and while the know-
ledge of that immense and beautiful thing was yet new
to her, she had allowed herself to harbour a sense of dis-
appointment, had allowed herself to make a bitter speech,
and, worse than that, had allowed herself to feel the bitter
thought that prompted it. It was lucky after all, better
than she deserved, that Arnold had not noticed it.

It was Walter's custom, when he was coming over to
lunch, to arrive at a quite unnecessarily early hour, so
that he had some time alone with Margery before Arnold
joined them at one for the stroll before lunch, and
to-day it was scarcely after twelve when she, having re-
turned to her elm-tree shade, was joined by him. The
collies, accustomed to him by now, gave him a silent greet-
ing of thumping tails, and, as usual, he propped himself
against the bole of the elm near Margery's chair, and
collected his long legs with clasped hands. But the
infallible lover instinct soon told him that something
had happened. Margery, though she often had as many
moods as April, had something, secret evidently, since
she did not speak of it to him, that inwardly absorbed
her ; for a couple of minutes she would be voluble, then
she suddenly seemed to lose herself, paid no attention
perhaps to the answer he gave to a direct question of hers,
and sat with soft dewy eyes looking out further than the
utmost horizon. Then perhaps she repeated the question
she had already asked him.

Walter did not stand this for long.

16

243 JUGGERNAUT

" You have asked me whether mother is well three
times now," he observed, " and I have twice told you that
she is in excellent health. I can't do more."

Margery suddenly devoted her whole attention to him,

" No, you dear, I know you can't," she said. " Walter,
is it wise to sit in the shade on the grass when you are
simply dripping ? I never saw anybody so hot, and you
will be sure to catch cold."

Then her attention completely wandered again.

" It is a nice world !" she observed.

" You have said that twice," he remarked. " You have
also said twice that it is our own silly faults if we are ever
disappointed about things. I only mention that for fear
you should repeat it a third time."

Margery shook her head with a solemn regret.

" But it's quite true," she said. " We spoil things for
ourselves, though I suppose somethimes things are really
disappointing. It's hard to know when they really are,
and when it's only me."

" Have you been out in the sun without a hat ?" asked
he, making really a quite legitimate deduction from her
intense futility.

Margery was perfectly idiotic ; she did not notice the
intention of his sarcasm at all, and nailed a sort of society
smile to her face.

" Yes, I took a stroll up and down the lawn, and the sun
was very hot," she said. " I do not remember such a
powerful sun any day this summer."

Then she babbled again.

" And Arnold asked me to put a hat on, and so I said
yes, and didn't — like, oh, like that man in the Bible. But
I came into the shade again, which surely will do as
well."

" Why wasn't Arnold working ?" asked Walter.

" He was, and I interrupted him. I mean I went past

JUGGERNAUT 243

his windows, and he looked up and saw me. He
asked "

Margery's voice suddenly sank to a whisper.

" Oh, Walter, look !" she said, pointing with her finger
to a tree not far distant.

Two swallows, the parent birds, were wheeling about
in small, apparently aimless circles round one of the
branches, uttering little encouraging cries. But the
circles were not aimless ; on a bough sat a young swallow,
which they were coaxing into trying to fly. It sat there
rather depressed, rather frightened, huddled up into
itself. Then, after two or three fruitless efforts, the old
birds flew away, hunting, and returned and fed it. Then
the little circles and the encouraging cries began again,
and at last the young bird took a spring from its bough,
and fluttered in the air for a moment. Then, growing
bolder, it ventured on another flight, fluttering with un-
necessary violence, using its wings as a child learning to
swim uses its limbs, with splashing and gesticulation.

" O little bird !" said Margery to herself. " Timid
little bird ; it is trying, it is learning. How patient and
tender they are with it ! Oh, Walter, isn't it sweet ?"

Margery turned to him, her eyes full of moist brightness.
Somehow the sight of the young thing with its anxious
encouraging mother had touched her to the heart. And
he was quite worthy of the sight, of its romance, its
delicious freshness, its simple piercing to the heart of
things.

" Oh, ripping !" he said. " It's so young, and they are
so good to it. Look, they are feeding it again."

Yes, he understood that ; it went home to him. Perhaps
her news would go home to him also. Margery did not
know whether it was usual for a young wife to tell a young
man that she was going to have a baby, and she certainly
did not care.

244 JUGGERNAUT

" That somehow touches me so," she said. " I shall
soon know how they feel. I'm going to have a baby, too,
Walter dear."

He looked at her in silence a moment, smiling.

" Jolly of you to tell me, Margery !" he said. " I am
glad. I've always wanted you to have your heart's desire,
you know, as I told you once."

That was it ; the words were simple enough, not chosen,
not thought out. But she found them all that she had
sought in vain from Arnold.

At this moment a most unusual thing happened. The
stable clock had only just struck half-past twelve, and here
coming across the lawn towards them was her husband.
Margery could only remember such a portent as his lea\dng
his work before the scheduled hour occurring once before,
and on that occasion he had a headache. It was not
wonderful that she conjectured a similar untowardness
now.

" Darling, what has happened ?" she asked, rising and
going out of the shade to meet him. " You are not iU ?"

He smiled at her, looking very well indeed.

" No, dear," he said, speaking low ; " but your news,
your dear news, upset me ; I could not attend with my best
attention to what I was working at. You came between
me and the page. But not for a moment would I have
had you keep back your news till the morning's work
was over. It would have been a cruel kindness. I shall
make a holiday of to-day instead. Ah, there is Walter.
Good-morning, my dear Walter. Have you indeed ridden
over in this blinding heat ? And, Ma^geIy^ Margery,
where is the hat you promised me you would put on ?
You naughty child ! Pray go and get it at once. Indeed,
you shall not stroll with us without it. I shall go with
Walter alone."

Then he spoke in a low tone to her again.

JUGGERNAUT 245

" You must take even greater care of yourself now, my
darling," he said.

Margery went to get her hat, as he had wished, and
again humour came to her aid. It was funny, not dis-
tressing any more, but merely funny. She had done him
a wrong ; she had thought that his work was more en-
grossing to him that the news she had given him. But
that was quite a mistake ; he had been unable to attend
properly owing to what he had heard, and was going to
make holiday instead. And she shook with quiet laughter
that no longer had any bitterness in it. It seemed to her
that Walter with his simplicit}^ and his s;yTnpathy had
driven that away.

Arnold watched her retreating figure w4th affectionate
eyes. Her instant anxiety lest it was some sort of physical
malaise that had driven him at this unwonted hour from
his work touched him. Evidently Margery had no idea
how her news had moved him ; she had apologised for
her interruption, for instance, and it had not occurred
to her that it was this that had stood all the morning
between his page and him. He turned to Walter, feeling
that he must share his delight with somebody.

" I must tell you, my dear Walter," he said, " what a
joy is coming to us. Margery is going to have a child.
I do not know when I have been more moved or affected.
It is that which has made me leave my work early. I
felt really unable to do justice either to my subject or
myself."

Walter hesitated a moment, then decided not to tell
Arnold that he already knew, and made some suitable
reply of congratulation.

Arnold lit a cigarette, a thing again rather unusual with
him, since he seldom smoked except directly after meals.

"And so I am making a holiday of it," he repeated.
" Ah, by the way, you can tell me, perhaps, as you are

246 JUGGERNAUT

straight back from Athens, are they doing any excavation
on the site of the Long Walls ? One wants, of course, to
have the very latest results that are obtainable."

Arnold felt himself so much calmed and steadied again
by tea-time that afterwards (though he went into his room
in the first instance only to set some papers in order, and
write to the London library for a parcel of books which
he knew he would want in the course of the next week),
beginning by adding a few words only to complete a
compilation of certain authorities on the constitution of
the Athenian dikasteries, he insensibly found himself
warming to his work again, and devoting to it his best
instead of his second-best attention. Indeed, it seemed
to him in the few conscious moments that elapsed before
his investigation gripped and absorbed him again that an
unusual vividness and power of concentration had come
to his brain. It might be that he worked habitually
rather too long in the morning, and that this little rest
to-day had revivified him, but another explanation, that
Margery's news had quickened and sharpened his wits as
well as his emotions, seemed to him the more probable,
and also the more acceptable. He remembered that at
the time of his father's death he had — seeking for work as
a distraction to his real and genuine grief — done a piece
of astonishingly acute analysis. . . . That seemed to be
on all fours with the other . . . and then the fascination
of his work hypnotised him, rendered him unconscious
of himself or the possible reason for his acuteness of
observation.

Margery and he, as usual, dined alone, and, as usual,
after dinner went to sit in his room, which was more
comfortable for two or three people than the drawing-
room, with its formal furniture. The card-table with its
Patience pack, was laid out ready for them, for this, after
Arnold had glanced through the evening paper, and per-

JUGGERNAUT 247

haps given his wife the latest bulletin about his work,
formed, as a rule, the pastime for the evening. There was
a slight excitement about it, sufficient to keep the mind
pleasantly occupied, while at the same time it made no
unreasonable demands on a brain already sufficiently
exercised. But to-night he did not as usual move from
his chair by the fireplace to those placed ready by the
card-table, and Margery again wondered at the irregularity.
Then it appeared that the great talk was coming.

" The thirty-first of August," he said—" a day always
to be marked by a white stone. I have often wondered
before now how I should feel if you came to me with that
beautiful news, and I had never guessed or imagined how
beautiful it would be. And for you, my darling, why, it
must be even more wonderful for you than for me."

She left her seat, and perched herself on the arm of his
low chair. It was difficult to know what to say to this,
for the very truth of it made it unreal.

" Yes, dear. It is beyond telling," she said. " I can
hardly talk about it even to you. Aren't you going to
play your Patience to-night ?"

Here he was completely at sea : he made no guess at all
as to Margery's lack of responsiveness, while he himself
was feeling so very expansive. But the memory of the
dreadful flatness and the acute disappointment of this
morning, when she came to him with shining eyes and open
heart, made it impossible for her to discuss or dream over
the matter again. It was far better that he should say
nothing about it than that he should (as he quite assuredly
would) again fail so utterly to reach her feelings, or divine
what was in her heart. She had taken her heart to him
in her hands, so to speak, open, beating, and he had not
seen. And just now, with all the tenderness of night, of
still dark hours when she could be alone with her know-
ledge close round her, it did not seem possible to risk

248 JUGGERNAUT

further inadequacy on his part. She might be amused if
he continued to assure her how deeply he felt, she might,
which would be much worse, feel bitter again and es-
tranged from him . She was sure she was wise in proposing
Patience.

It was then, when the knowledge that ought to have
brought them into such indissoluble unity was theirs, that
misunderstanding really entered. He thought it strange
and unaccountable that she had so little of response to
his wonderful platitudes, whereas the truth was that she
could not talk on such levels as these, simply because to
her it was mere empty gabble. But Arnold did not des-
pair of showing her what prospective fatherhood was to
him, since by doing that (in well-chosen words) he might
kindle in her that maternal sense in which she seemed to
be lacking. And, foolish though the attempt was, there
was something rather pathetic about it.

" Ah, to-night I think Patience can wait !" he said. " I
feel that I should not be able to take that interest in it
which redeems it from futility. I feel that life, even life
with you, my dearest, has been hfted on to a higher level
to-day. The wonder, the miracle of love has been made
more real to us both. Is it not strange — yet, after all,
perhaps it is only natural — that when the great Lords and
Princes of the heart come and dwell with one, how common,
how ordinary the things which one thought were worthy
of one's highest effort become ? It was so with me, dear,
when we married ; I scarcely touched a book for six
months. And it was so again with me this morning ; you
and your news came between the work and me, so that
everything else seemed remote. I wonder you did not
guess that when you saw me coming out so long before
my ordinary time."

How Margery wished Arnold would go and play
Patience ! It was just because she loved him that she

JUGGERNAUT 249

could not bear these academic futilities and this really
exquisite language. Already he was comparing the
interest evoked in him by the prospect of his fatherhood
with the interest he felt in the age of Pericles. If he only
would not compare them at all ! And the fact that the
age of Pericles was for the time distinctly the less absorbing
made the comedy of it more tragical.

And there was more to come.

" There was another result, too, dear," he said, " which
I am sure will interest you, as you take such a deep and
loving interest in my work. I went to my room after tea,
though I had meant, as I had told you, to take a complete
holiday, and almost before I knew it I was absorbed in
my work, and found I was seeing through obscurities,
observing the solution of apparent incongruities in a way
that surprised me. I cleared up two or three points
which I nearly despaired of reconciling last week. Such
news as you gave me to-day, I think, must quicken all
one's faculties. Certainly it is long since I felt my brain
so active and percipient."

Margery gave a little sigh, half regretful, but wholly
tender. It was still Arnold who spoke.

" I am very glad !" she said. " I hope that it will last,
that you will work better now than ever before."

This spurred him on to the development of the thoughts
which he felt to be so concordant with hers, and which,
word by word, became more antagonistic.

" I am sure it will be so," he said ; " and how these
weeks that are coming will be made of gold in the memory
of each of us. Before this year autumn has always been
to me a time of retrospection, if not of sadness. One is
wont to dwell on the glory of the summer that has passed,
and to lament the yellowing and falling leaves. But
this year how different it will be for us both ! The
months that pass will bring fruition nearer ; it is no wintry

250 JUGGERNAUT

death that Hes in front of us, but the springing of fresh
life."

That might have been adequate this morning ; now it
was empty to Margery. But the hand of hers that stole
round his neck was genuinely there : she loved him, and
he was being himself anyhow. It was no pose that
dictated those charming reflections and clothed them in
simple beautiful words. But — and here was the differ-
ence— what he said now was the result of reflection. He
had not been spontaneous. This morning when he first
knew, he had not felt. And then, as he went on, the
clinging caress of her fingers was relaxed.

" And what gift am I to bring you, my darhng ?" he
said, " in return for the gift you are bringing me ? My
love ? You know that you have it. And there is nothing
which is so distilled from me, me myself, as that. But as
a side-show, shall we say? there is something else I shall be
bringing every day to advance towards its birth. You
guess. I see you guess. And I can give you news of
that. Only this evening I finished what we have called
the sinews and muscles of the book. To-morrow, dear, I
begin writing. There will be ' Chapter I.' written at the
head of a piece of paper, and then the book will begin.
I should never have believed it possible that within a
couple of months of the time when I set up the skeleton
I should have been able to begin the writing. But so it
is. And do you know why it has been so rapid, and also,
I trust, so sure ? It is just you, Margery — you and your
S3mipathy and your love. I have never worked in so
wonderful an atmosphere before. And now I must make
a little confession. Do you know I was almost glad
when my beloved mother went away ? I wanted un-
diluted you."

It seemed that he did not notice the relaxation of her
hand. His own had grasped it, and the warmth and

JUGGERNAUT 251

eagerness of his ovvti feeling was sufficient stimulus to him.
Besides, a hundred and a thousand times had Margery
shown the eagerness of her sympathy with his work ; it
was scarcely strange that he should take it for granted now.

" You sit on the throne of my heart," he said, " and look
down with smiles and blessing on my brain and its work.
No, my dearest, I am not exaggerating what I feel."
(Margery had made a little gesture of shrinking, which he
again quite misunderstood.) " You are the crown of
every part of me, brain and heart alike. There is nothing
which I do not dedicate to you, for you inspire it all.
If you told me to tear my work up, if you forbade me to
go on with it, I think I should obey. Do you remember
how Rossetti buried his book of poems in his wife's coffin ?
I could do that. But it is not coffins, it is cradles that
concern us."

A thought, sudden as a flicked whip-lash, but luminous
as a flash of lightning, started into Margery's brain.

" He is not talking about me," she said to herself ; " he
is talking about himself."

It came and went, stinging like the lash, illuminating as
the lightning. There was no need for her to make calls
upon her heart to banish it, for it was gone almost before
she knew it was there. But it had been there.

" I want you only, you alone," he added. " And I
want you to want me only. "

Margery's mind suddenly became stiff and still, like a
pointer at scent. She could not help wondering if some-
thing specific was in his mind. And the wonder, from
being remote possibility, got suddenly nearer and more
firmly outlined.

" Do you mean Walter ?" she asked.

He smiled at her.

" I will answer you by another question," he said. " Do
you not think we are all in all to each other ?"

252 JUGGERNAUT

Margery's face grew suddenly troubled. She detached
her hand from his, and got up from the chair-arm where
she had been sitting.

" But that is no reason why we should not have friends,"
she said. " And I thought you liked to see him."

Again the love of which he was capable burst into flame,
a trim, well-ordered flame.

" If you really asked me — really, I mean," he said, " to
go with you to a desert island, I would go."

Margery bent forward towards him, and spoke out that
which she was conscious of.

" Yes, yes, dear," she said, " I believe you would. But
you would take your book with you."

For a moment he did not reply.

" I have already told you that I would tear up my
book if you wished," he said. " I would drown it like
Prospero."

An unhappy classical allusion ! Anything would have
been better than that ! Margery had to make a very
conscious effort with herself now.

" Yes, dear, I believe it," she said. " But should I not
be a dreadfully stupid goose if I said, ' Come with me to a
desert island, and don't bring anything that interests you,
otherwise I shall feel that I am not all in all to you ' ? I
think it would be very silly of me. And I do not think
it is wise of you, Arnold, to want me to see less of my
friends. I have not seen much of them lately, and, oh, how
willingly I have been rather lonely sometimes, simply be-
cause I wasn't lonely really, with you always here ! And I
can't treat my friends like that ; it is as unreasonable of you
to suggest it as it would be of me to suggest that you
should cease to do your work. Does it lessen our love for
each other that we should both of us want companions ?
Your work is a companion to you. And, after all, for
the sake of that, Walter is the only companion I have

JUGGERNAUT 253

had all these weeks. Oh, surely you know me well
enough not to misunderstand me, to feel how delicious
they have been to me ! And I just love to have you
tell me that you were not sorry when even your darling
mother went away."

And then a genius more evil than classical allusions
prompted him.

" Is Walter, then, more to you than my mother is to
me ?" he said.

Margery stared at him for a moment.

" Oh, my dear, what a pity to say that sort of thing !"
she exclaimed. " It doesn't mean anything, which is a
good thing, because if it did, it would mean something
not quite nice. Just tell me it doesn't mean anything."

He was silent a moment. Then he held out his hand
to her.

" I am a pig," he said.

CHAPTER XII

In the physical world storms of rain and thundercloud
may always have one of two effects, which are opposite
to one another, though each is a natural consequence.
The pouring out and explosions of the elements may, as
we call it, clear the air, and induce a period of calm and
sunny weather ; or it may unsettle the weather and be but
the precursor of fitful and uncertain days. The analogy
seems to apply, if not too closely pressed, to the economy
of psychical, no less than physical forces : a disturbance
in these regions sometimes produces equilibrium again,
sometimes it is but a token of disturbed equilibrium, and
has not the effect of restoring it. The interview last
recorded between Margery and her husband is perhaps of
too slight an order to be dignified by the title of storm,
and, since it ended in absolute amity again, it might be
supposed that, slight though the explosion was, a mere
winking of summer lightning, it would be succeeded by
a period of halcyon days. True, at the end of it Arnold
had made an innuendo of a rather evil sort, but the ful-
ness of Margery's forgiveness for that, and, indeed, the
fact that it had no real foundation in his mind, should have
made of it an element of reconciliation.

But not once or twice, but so often that the thought
seemed to take place as a permanent background in her
mind Margery wondered as the days of a very still Sep-
tember went by whether the disturbance had entirely
passed. Sometimes it seemed to her that the hours con-

254

JUGGERNAUT 255

tained a quality of perfection more radiant than any she
had known, but at others it seemed that the whole sky
was gossamered by webs of cloud, so that the light was
pale. Often with self-inflicted reproach she would ask
herself what it was she missed, and she found that her
answer was symbolised just by that turning of the leaf
of a book that she had heard when she waited for Arnold
to come close — close to her. And then honestly, with no
half-hearted blows, she would belabour herself for her
puniness. But, most disconcertingly, she found that she
was belabouring not what she called her puniness only,
but her sense of motherhood. And she could not quite
beat that into submission.

Puny she might call herself, but in truth during those
September days she was not small of soul, and all uncon-
sciously that great sweet flower was expanding daily,
putting out every hour new and fragrant petals that had
their birth in her gentle, fiery heart. Even at the first
moment of his saying that little bitter thing, in comparing
his affection for his mother with hers for Walter, she had
nothing but pure pity for that, and her pity, which was
momentary, flaring and expiring, had but left in the air
the fragrance of the love with which it was impregnated.

In other respects, in all of them, everything went on as
with the quiet and uneventfulness of perfect prosperity.
Mrs. Leveson had been back once again for a week,
meaning originally to stop for a fortnight, but with
extraordinarily genial humour she had found at the end
of a week that she had a pressing engagement elsewhere
which she had quite unaccountably — she with her ex-
cellent memory — forgotten about. Margery had not
failed to smell so prodigious a rat, and taxed her with
the truth. She confessed the solidity of Margery's con-
jecture at once.

" Yes, my dear," she said, " you are absolutely right.

256 JUGGERNAUT

But though we all feel de trop at times, and have to put up
with it, though it is as uncomfortable as a cold in the head,
there are limits. I did not know anyone could be so de
trop as I, and nothing has given me so much pleasure for
a long time. But I can't stand it any longer ; it is ridicu-
lous for any self-respecting mother to be so dreadfully in
the way. Arnold loves me, I know, but just now he will
love me best at a distance."

It was all quite, quite true, but Mrs. Leveson, so far
from feeling the least piqued at her superfluousness, was
genuinely delighted with it. Then for a moment she
became more serious.

" Margery dear, you are a wonderful girl, do you know ?
I am of a jealous and exacting disposition, I am really, and
you stepped in, you Tanagra figurine, as he used to call
you, and broke up unconsciously and completely and
permanently a very strong mother-and-son attachment.
He doesn't love me in the least less than he did, but there
he was, sitting in a room, so to speak, with me, the farthing
dip, and you turned on the electric light. The farthing
dip goes on burning just the same, but it is not the sole
supply of illumination."

" Oh, do you think you are right about it all ?" asked
Margery, quite unable not to feel pleased, and flushing a
little with her pleasure.

" My dear, I don't think anything about it. I pack
my trunks. Now, I have been quite frank with you, and
so I have the right to ask you the most inconvenient
question. Don't you know I'm right perfectly well ?
Hasn't " — Mrs. Leveson's eyes twinkled with great enjoy-
jnent — " hasn't Arnold really gone so far as to tell you
he doesn't want me ?"

Margery raised a comically imploring face to her mother-
in-law's. But the good-humour and content she found
there made her laugh.

JUGGERNAUT 257

" It's no use," she said. " He did say he was almost —
he said almost — glad when you went away before."

" He will be quite glad this time," said Mrs. Leveson
with cheerful decision.

" I like that Walter of yours," she went on, " and Arnold
likes him. I am sorry he is going away. It is excellent
for you both to have him over here constantly. By the
way, I met his mother to-day when I was out walking,
and she held out hopes of coming over to see you to-
morrow. I think you had better be prepared for a
scolding, or rather for — for the somewhat voluminous
assurance that she is not going to scold you."

" What have I done ?" asked Margery.

" Nothing which you could avoid. But really, my dear,
your Aunt Aggie is a very curious woman."

" I know. And she doesn't like me," said Margery. " It
is such a pity. You see poor Aunt Aggie had — had all
sorts of other schemes for other people, and — and they
didn't come off, and she thinks it was me."

" So it was," said Mrs. Leveson smartly.

" I know, but not in her sense. It wasn't my fault."

Margery laughed, again without any sort of resentment,
but with the simplest amusement.

" And she was so funny when I told her I was going to
have a child," she said. " She really behaved as if it
was a personal insult to her. And you know Arnold
can't quite stand her. Will she come to tea, do
you think ? I shall warn him, and then he will go
straight to his study when he comes in, and I shall
say he went out riding after lunch, and I haven't seen
him since."

" Nonsense," said Mrs. Leveson. " Make him come
and take his share."

" But it will put him out of mood for his work," said
the girl.

17

25S JUGGERNAUT

^Irs. Leveson put a hand on each side of her face and
kissed her.

" No wonder Arnold finds me de trcp." she said. " But
except as regards him, I don't believe you do."

That was all good ; good, too, was the daily report of
the progress of Arnold's work, for he said it " was writing
itsell" the phrase expressing to him the most perfect,
because it was the most effortless, species of Uterar\- pro-
duction. He was soaked in the knowledge of his theme,
and whether or not it was on account of the reason he
had given to Margery, namely, that the stir of his emo-
tions had quickened his Uterary faculty, the beautiful

- s flowed '-'- ' stream past the observant

L^ -7-'" •■" ' "- ^.2ste. Now and then,

ii „ ----. - -^ ^ V ... _i for a whole morning

he would scarcely set down a page of writing, and he
would search through the pavement, so to speak, of
fehcitous phrases which he had collected, for an hour at a
time in the - .g something which would

suggest to him, li nothing more, the turn of speech of
which he was in need. Nothing but the exact and proper
words would satisfy him — even when he was but enumera-
ting facts, or setting the mere events of a year in order
on his pages, the words had to be beautiful, so that, when
spoken, they were music in themselves ; not only had the
facts to be unerring, but the manner of their presentation
likewise. And ^rarsrery, watching with the clear-eyed
svint)ath\- -.an to realise what this clean-cut

c eant to the creator, what passion prompted the

z r with which he would search for the " ine\-itable

Wwia, with what gleeful confidence he would know when

V - V , J gQ^ j^ Then every week, or, if production had
": -^ --.an usually rapid, perhaps twice a week, he

V -3 her what he had written. On one such

evening a rather dreadful incident occurred.

JUGGERNAUT 259

She had been out most of the day, in bugling gales of the
equinox, and coming in about teatime had felt that
delicious hea^dnes5 of the e3^elids ajid lassitude of limb
that results from much buffeting with winds, ajid as Arnold
was going to read to her that evening she thought it well
to go upstairs with the intention of ha-vong a nap before
dinner. But a story which she was reading, and took
up now, since the remarkable dullness of it would, she
thought, conduce to sleep, suddenly became overwhelm-
ingly interesting, and she read on wide-ej^ed and tense of
mind until her maid told her that the dressing-bell was
alread}' an affair of a quarter of an hour ago. And, after
dinner, Arnold read to her about the constitution of the
famous dikasteries.

Poor Margen^ strove in vain. She might as well have
striven against the law of gravit}^ and after passing
through all the nightmare torture of trjing to keep awake,
after persuading herself that she could attend better with
her ej-es shut, and ha^dng to open them again as if the lids
were weights fit to exercise the muscles of Hercules, after
hearing Arnold's voice continue reading, but reading, as
it seemed to her, gibberish, after suddenly becoming
aware that Aunt Aggie was angry with her for eloping
with Walter, these disquieting experiences passed, and she
slept dreamlesslj-. And when she awoke Arnold had left
his chair and was plaj-ing Patience ail by himself. But,
after all, he was, outwardly at least, very kind about it ;
he only bargained with her that when she felt sleepy she
should say so, and did not propose to discontinue his
readings altogether. But, alas ! he put the fact down
in that dreadful Httle account-book of the mind which he
had begun keeping in London. But of that Margery
knew nothing, nor, indeed, did he know how man}'^ items
were indehbly \sTitten there. He did not glance back at
them, or wish to recollect them.

26o JUGGERNAUT

So the work (with the exception of this Httle incident)
and all that pertained to the work was satisfactory, and
Margery could no longer even want to weigh its import-
ance to her husband against what she had hoped some-
thing else might weigh. She was quite content to know
that to him this intellectual interest was something para-
mount, and saw that the work could not have been so
exquisite (though once she had slept over it) had not it
been of supreme importance to him. It was worth while
doing it because it was so beautiful, but it could not have
been so beautiful had he not given himself to it body and
mind, so that everything in the daily arrangement of the
house was attracted to and moved in its orbit. And,
luckily for her peace of mind, she did not at present
suspect that the seeds of sex-antagonism lurked there,
barren and unfructified as yet, but full of potential life.

Delightfully satisfactory also was Walter and all that
concerned him, except the one dreadful fact that every day
brought the hour of his departure to Athens nearer. To
Margery, who, when she first knew that he loved her,
thought the old childish days when they played together
were dead, it seemed now that they had risen from their
graves unchanged and uncorrupted, so complete was his
effacement of that which had stricken them. Her affec-
tion for him had never, from the very first, when he
welcomed her forlorn little figure to the house in Curzon
Street, altered in quality, and he had made it appear all
these last two months that the disturbing element had
gone from him. Never once by word or look did he
betray himself and the real state of his affection. He
could not be all to her, and to be her comrade again was
so infinitely better than to lose their intercourse alto-
gether, which must have happened if he let appear for a
moment his longing and desire for her. For about true
love there is a sacredness which the denial of it by those

JUGGERNAUT 261

of lower grade does not impair. She was holy to him ;
therefore he served her faithfully in common ways.

Arnold, after the mistake he had made over the fre-
quency of Walter's visits, had been sedulous to repair his
error as far as the frequency of those visits was concerned,
and it was he who generally reminded Walter that he
was at all times welcome. But Arnold could not postpone
(nor in his heart did he in the least wish to, though his
tongue framed regrets) the end of his leave, and this
morning, the last of a sunny September, Margery was
walking up and down the gravel path by the long flower-
bed waiting for Walter's arrival in the cool sunshine
after a night of frost, as in the August days she had
waited in the shade of the towers of elms. The frost, the
first of the year, had not been of sufficient severity to
blacken the flowers, and they would flame for another
day yet ; the scarlet of the salvias was undimmed, phloxes
had lost none of their delicate youthful colouring, the sun-
flowers turned untarnished gold to their god, and the
dahlias with their great fat heads — they always reminded
Margery of barmaids ; buxom was exactly the epithet for
them — were still complacent and comfortable. But the
elms had already begun to yellow, and the hint of russet
that should flame into the golds and reds of October was
beginning to deepen in the beech woods. The lawn was
covered with the diamonds of the melted frost, and a
few withered leaves had drifted against the wires of
croquet hoops. That insignificant little item was some-
how wonderfully significant to Margery ; it reminded
her so much of the days after Walter had gone to school
in succeeding Septembers, when the croquet hoops still
remained upon the lawn at Ballards, but nobody cared to
play.

By to-morrow Walter would again have gone ; his depar-
ture was autumnal, too. But inside the house there was

262 JUGGERNAUT

Arnold in the height of his intellectual summer. As he
had said not many days ago, autumn this year was for
him no precursor of winter, and Margery, who at this
moment felt rather keenly the approach of the chillier
days and their diminished lights, warmed herself, so to
speak, at that steady fire.

Then round the corner came the familiar step, and
Walter was with her.

" I can't stop to lunch to-day, Margery," he said. " My
mother makes rather a point of my getting back, as it's
my last day. Indeed, she thought it was rather unneces-
sary my coming over at all. But I had to say good-bye
to you and Arnold. What's to be done, though ? He
won't be out before I have to go. Shall I go in and
interrupt him ? I want to get something definite out of
him as to whether he will bring you out to Athens this
autumn or not."

Margery shook her head.

" You won't get anything definite out of him," she said.
" At least, I can't. I tried last night. There's nothing
definite to get. It must depend on the book, he says.
He may find he wants to see certain things himself ; if so,
we shall come. But if he doesn't — why, we shan't.
And he can't tell in advance. I quite see that."

" It seems to me that everybody and everything has to
stand round the book, like — like a row of flunkies," said
Walter, with some asperity.

" Yes, dear, one can look at it in that way if one likes,"
said she, " but the other way to look at it is that it's such
a joy to be able to help."

" I'm afraid I'm not quite so keen. I want you to come
out to Athens, and I shouldn't care the least if the progress
of the book was delayed for a month. Besides, all ar-
rangements of every kind can't be postponed indefinitely
for its sake."

JUGGERNAUT 263

Now the book was part of Arnold, and Margery was at
present utterly loyal to it, for the seeds of antagonism were
as yet dormant.

" But that is exactly what they must do," she said.
" The book has got to be made as good as it can be made ;
it has got to be perfect. Oh, Walter, you don't know
how I love being able to help. I do help, you know.
I'm just what he wants. He told me so !"

" But are you going to stop on here all the autumn and
winter without stirring ?" he asked.

" Unless he wants a change," said Margery simply.
" And without having anybody here ?"
" Unless he wants people," she said.
For a moment her mind went back to that morning of
dreadful disappointment when she told him her secret.
But she put that away ; she had been either thinking too
much about herself then or she had formed a wrong idea
of him. In either case, she had better banish what she had
felt then. Yet it required an effort to stow it quite away.
" It's part of Arnold, you see, Walter," she said. " It's
his mind, which is a very beautiful thing, which is con-
cerned. Supposing he was ill, for instance, wouldn't one
gladly go on a voyage with him, or live anywhere the
doctors recommended, so that his body might get strong
and vigorous ? So here — it's the well-being of his mind
that is concerned. One must give it the best conditions
possible, at any cost. Not that it is any cost — it's a joy
to be able to."

" Well, since you feel like that " he began.

" And since you perfectly understand that I do, and
why and how I do," interrupted Margery, " we'd better
say that we agree instead of pretending to argue !"
" But I want you to come to Athens," said he.
" Ah, good gracious, don't I also want to come ?" she said.
Strolling and talking, Margery and Walter had paused

264 JUGGERNAUT

for the last minute or two just opposite Arnold's windows.
The sound of their steps had originally caught his atten-
tion as he tried to frame a couple of sentences which
should sum up the curious secluded position of the married
Athenian woman. The system was not exactly that of
the harem ; the wife was of greater nonentity (yet greater
nonentity would not do, for there are no degrees in
nothingness) than the favourite wife in the harem would
be. She was a slave to her husband's wishes, and she
had no part in his life, except to give him heirs : she
had no influence on him, no share in his intellectual
pursuits. Probably she was kindly treated ; if not, she
had an easy redress in divorce, but she was practically a
prisoner in his house, except on the feast of the Thesmo-
phoria, from which all men were excluded, and the
women held their futile annual parliament. Their posi-
tion was poles apart from the position of women in
England, and yet how seldom even the English wife
really shared or helped in her husband's intellectual
affairs, except to arrange that the material machinery
of the house should go more silently, and not distract him.
All this, all that was suggested by this, had to be put in a
couple of summing-up sentences.

The steps a little disturbed him ; then as they came
nearer he heard the familiar voices. Then the steps
paused in front of his window, while the voices continued.
He could not hear the words, though by listening he
might have done so. But his object was not to listen,
but to distract himself altogether from the disturbing
sounds. But it was no use ; his mind drifted steadily
away from his work — the thread was broken. Such a
thing had not happened for weeks, and it was anno3dng.
No doubt Margery and Walter had not meant to interrupt
him, but it was a little thoughtless of Margery to come
and chatter just in front of his window.

JUGGERNAUT 265

He leaned back in his chair and looked out. They were
standing just outside on the gravel walk, she with her
arm in his. And now that the thread of his attention
to his work was completely severed he could hear the
words.

" Ah, good gracious, don't I also want to come ?" said
Margery.

The possibility of Athens for a few weeks or so during
the autumn had been so often discussed that he
guessed it was of that they were speaking. And now he
listened.

" Well, come out with Olive, then," said Walter. " She
is really thinking of coming, if she can get anyone to go
with her."

" And leave Arnold here," she said. " Likely, isn't
it?"

They moved on, and Arnold, now that the interruption
was over, took up his pen again, and bent his mind to
those elusive sentences which were to sum up the position
of the wives of the Greeks of Pericles' time. Certainly
if they did not help their husbands in their intellectual
pursuits he felt pretty sure that they were not allowed to
hinder and interrupt them, and it was most annoying
just at the close of a section to be disturbed like this. Of
course dear Margery had not meant it, but she did not
seem to know how easily disturbed is the balance of a
mind delicately threading its way along the razor-edge
of Hterary composition, and how hard to regain is that
subtle equipoise. Perhaps if he read his last two or three
paragraphs through again very carefully he might distil
from them their essence and find the sentences he
was hunting for. But if he could not find the precise
words of summary, not even the annoyance of a barren
morning should make him be content with the second
best.

266 JUGGERNAUT

Slowly and carefully he read over the last half-dozen
pages of minute, scholarly handwriting, and then for a
few minutes let them simmer in his brain. Then, like
steam rising from the ebullience of clear, lucid water, he
felt the conclusion, distilled from what he had written,
wreathing upwards, and he began to write. And even as
the first sentence began to form itself on the paper he
heard voices outside again, and Margery called to
him.

" Arnold dear," she said, " Walter cannot stop to lunch,
and I know you wouldn't like him to go away without
saying good-bye, so I risked disturbing you."

For one moment Arnold tried to concentrate his mind
on what was so nearly done. But it slipped from him,
sliding back, so to speak, from the very point of his
stylograph into the reservoir of ink again. It had gone.
He threw down his pen, and, with more impatience than
he often showed, rose from his seat.

" I shall be delighted to wish Walter good-bye," he said
to himself.

" Shall he come in ?" asked Margery.

" No, my dear, I will come out," he said sharply.

It was no use attempting to get to work again after this,
and, when Walter had gone, he so far departed from his
usual habits as to send for the morning paper (which it was
his invariable custom to glance at after lunch), and sat in
the sun to read it. Here Margery found him (with a
certain sinking of the heart) when she came back from
seeing Walter off.

" I am sorry he has gone," she said. " Shall we go for
our stroll, dear ?"

" It wants twenty minutes to one," said he. " Is there
any reason why we should go earlier to-day ?"

She sat down by him, looking at the page nearest her.
He instantly turned over.

JUGGERNAUT 267

" Arnold, I didn't do wrong in interrupting you, did
I ?" she asked, knowing there was something wrong.

" By no means," he said. " My morning had already
been interrupted by your conversation just outside my
window. I should not have alluded to it unless you had
asked."

" Oh dear, I am sorry," said she. " It was dread-
fully careless of me. Hasn't the work gone well
to-day ?"

" It has not gone at all," said he.

Then, suddenly, in the midst of these distractions, an
inspiration came into his brain. It was not the same con-
clusion as he had meant to write, but the new idea would
sum up the paragraphs more trenchantly than anything
he had yet thought of. He rose at once.

" But it is not of the slightest consequence, my dearest,"
he said, his good-humour being completely restored by this
unexpected find, " for just this moment the thought I had
been hunting for so long came to me. Let us go for our
stroll as usual at one."

He went straight back to his study, and the words flowed
from his pen.

" To our modem notions," he wrote, " this idea of the
entire subordination of women to men appears almost
barbaric, accustomed as we are to think of them as the
inspirers of men's work. It was not thus that the flower of
Greek civilisation blossomed ; from the cold, hard rock of
intellectual strength it sprang — fragrant, gemlike, human.
Nor, perhaps, till some race yet to be born recognises that
unemotional scrutiny is necessary for emotional analysis
and the production of virile work, shall again appear in the
fields of human efforts so austere and marvellous a
flower."

He paused : the sentence was but in the rough, and would
want careful re-writing, but the point of his summing-up

268 JUGGERNAUT

was contained there. He wondered what criticism Mar-
gery would make when he read it to her.

There was not yet enough written since the last reading
to form an after-dinner occupation for several nights to
come, and before he left this section altogether he found
that his unexpected summing-up required the insertion
of a few scattered sentences in the previous paragraphs.
After that the relations between Pericles and his wife,
followed by their amicable divorce, was easy to write,
and it was only a few days later that he announced he
had sufficient manuscript in hand to make an evening's
reading. He told her this at dinner, mentioning also the
subject on which he had been engaged.

Poor Margery sneezed violently before she answered.
Contrary to his advice, she had, with the threatening of a
cold already on her, been out for several hours that after-
noon in a keen wind which blew up squalls of chilly rain
from the north-east, and it was clear that the cold
threatened no longer, but had arrived.

" Oh, but that will be interesting," she said, disregarding
a rather savage stab of pain that shot through her head on
the explosion of those convulsive sneezes. " I want to
know exactly what the Greek women were like, not the
shepherdesses, I mean, but people like Pericles' wife."

She declined the wing of a chicken that was handed her
at this moment, and as she had already refused entree,
Arnold noticed it, for her appetite was usually of the most
encouraging order.

" Nothing wrong, dear ?" he asked.

" I think I've caught cold," said Margery, feeling she
was not overstating the case. " It's so stupid to eat when
one can't taste properly. Is that greedy ? I expect so.
But I shall love to be read to. It will be tremendously
interesting. Oh, Arnold, do you remember that dreadful
evening when I went to sleep ? It wasn't that I wasn't

JUGGERNAUT 269

interested, but I was so sleepy. To-night shall we begin
directly after dinner ? I shall go to bed early."

Now, Arnold was very sorry that Margery had caught
cold, and sincerely hoped that a long night would mend
matters. At the same time, he knew that colds were
infectious, also that there was a good deal of influenza
about, and it was quite ridiculous for him to run un-
necessary risks, and perhaps sacrifice a week of work.

" You will be wise to do that," he said. " And lest I
should disturb you coming to bed, I will sleep in my
dressing-room."

Margery laughed.

" Oh, I should have thought of that in a minute !" she
said.

After dinner, accordingly, he began his reading at once,
and Margery found it engrossingly but rather uncom-
fortably interesting. She had set herself down as usual
on the floor by the side of the chair where he read, and it
was not primarily the fear of infecting him with her cold
that made her move. It was when he came to that
summing up, which he had rewritten, making it more
lucid than ever, that she shifted her place. For what he
said there was said not historically of the Greeks of the
age of Pericles, but of man and woman. Out of his own
mouth, he attributed the unapproachable supremacy of
Greek art and achievement to the fact that it was the
intellect of man, unclouded by emotional mists, that was
allowed free play, without being hindered and dulled by
the meddlings of womankind. Wives in those days did
all that wives could do by giving sons to their husbands.
Otherwise they were nothing to them, and in consequence
there was this birth of the wondrous flower — what was it ?
— " fragrant, gemlike, human." It was all quite clear.

At the end of the paragraph he paused, and slid a small
table nearer to him, to get a cigarette. It was then that

270 JUGGERNAUT

Margery rose and sat in a chair on the other side of the
fireplace, where a fire of blue-flamed logs burned cheer-
fully. She did not speak, and he lit his cigarette in silence.
Then, as was quite usual, he said :

" Well ? How does it seem to you to go ?"

" Is that the end of the section ?" she asked.

" Yes ; I go into the particular instance of Pericles and
his wife after that."

She leaned forward in the more distant chair that she
had taken.

" Oh, Arnold, it is beautifully written !" she said. " I
don't think you ever said anything more lucidly. But —
but is that your opinion ?"

" It is a point of view," he said, rather regretting the
lucidity of it, regretting, anyhow, that he had read it
to her.

" But " — and again Margery stammered as she had done
when he came to see her in the shabby room that was her
own at Ballards — " but, is it w-what you r-really think ?
It seems to me to m-matter. It is not only about the
ancient Greeks. It's about us all. D-do you really think
that the best work done by men is done when they are not
b-bothered by women, and are able to take an unemotional
scrutiny — wasn't that the phrase ? Can't we help at all ?
I hoped that we helped."

It was sex to sex now. He had meant, and knew it, that
the best intellectual work was done by solitary intellects,
by the mind unencumbered with emotions. It was diffi-
cult to explain ; indeed, it was so difiicult that he, like
Dr. Johnson, should have accepted the fact that it would
have been better if it had been impossible.

" No, I don't mean that at all," he said ; " and, no
doubt, dearest, I must have expressed it very badly, if
you think that was the point. It is only that every
thinking process, in order to be valuable, must be allowed

JUGGERNAUT 271

to proceed without interruption. You, you delicious
women, are so much more attractive than anything else
that, instead of thinking and creating, we leave our duties
and come out into the sunlight, and search for a smile
instead of a simile."

" Ah, we hinder, we do not help, then !" said Margery
quickly.

Something — it might be called manliness (though he had
not very much of that), or pride, or mere desire to justify
what he had certainly written, prevented his capitulation.
What easy terms Margery would have made ! Indeed,
there would not have been any terms at all ; his capitula-
tion would have meant her surrender. She had no design
of marching into his citadel, she but longed for him to
march into hers. But these dreadful sentences implied
that she had no citadel ; there was nothing that he could
take there which was not his already, while she but pre-
vented him from enjoying and making the most of what
was his own.

" But you misunderstand," he said, knowing that she
quite understood the particular mood under which he had
written that which he had just read to her. " I say,
you enchant and bewilder us, and if you take our minds
off that which we call work, you give us that which we
know of life."

But his voice, his presence, no longer quite satisfied
Margery.

" Oh, Arnold, is that really what you meant ?" she asked.

The sex antagonism had sprouted ; the seeds of it had
strong, erect little stalks growing from them. She knew
quite well what he meant, and knew he knew it. He, at
the moment of writing those biting sentences, definitely
placed himself and his work as the things which had to be
ministered unto, and she, with the unborn child, had to
minister. Oh, she would serve, for she had served, and

272 JUGGERNAUT

sucked honey of joy from her service, but he did not
even recognise there was service given him, any more
than he recognised that the sun rose in the morning.
There was daylight again, and he could see to explore
his notebooks, and write his perfect sentences. She
had to be as reasonable and as subservient as the sun.
It rose for him ; she was always ready to stroll with
him.

Thus sweetly, naturally, she surrendered again.

" My cold is quite too awful !" she said ; " and it makes
me stupid. I think all you have read to me is brilliant ;
you have never written an3^thing better. But may I
have it all again when I am less stupefied ? I long to
hear the rest of it, but to-night, dear, I am quite too
idiotic."

Margery went upstairs to bed, her head aching savagely,
and her heart aching a little, too. She wanted so much to
understand just what he did feel about this and every
other point which concerned him or her. And to-night
she felt more : she felt as if she almost wanted to get
leave to love him, to be assured that it did not confuse
and impede the exact workings of his exquisite mind.
There was nothing of sarcasm, no conscious irony about
the thought ; but that brilliant, lucid summing-up was
strangely disquieting, for it seemed to be the key to the
disappointment and chill she had felt when she first told
him that she was with child. Then he had so soon turned
over a leaf of some wise book ; now he seemed to her to
explain, definitely and in his own inimitable style, why
he did that. There was a big part of him, his mind,
that with which she as a girl had fallen in love, into which
(such at least was his account of the matter) she, as
woman, could not penetrate ; and her presence there but
confused and dulled its orderly working. All she could do
was to see that no interruption, no chance whisper or

JUGGERNAUT 273

unpunctual meal, disturbed him when, so to speak, he sat
in his own mind. She might guard the threshold, remain-
ing outside, and from time to time below the locked door
he would pass out the manuscripts that he had written for
her to read.

But from him she had no such locked chambers. All
the warm, sweet-smelling rooms in her house of life were
open for him, all were decorated in his honour should he
in passing care to enter them. But it seemed sometimes
that he scarcely cared to come into the one which was
above all their own ; he looked in, so to speak, saw, as a
householder may see, that it was ready for him, and
then — then there came the whisper of the turned leaf.
He had already hurried back, so quickly, to the chamber
of his own mind.

These disturbing thoughts flickered up and down in
Margery's brain, even as, on the walls of her bedroom, the
firelight leaped up and sank again, with flapping of
flames. In that fitful illumination everything seemed
distorted and out of scale ; at one moment her own hand
became to her monstrously large and close to her eyes,
at another it would seem to recede till it became as
remote as the vision of near things looked at through a
reversed telescope. Or again, the thing standing in her
window, with white cloth and gleaming silver, was at one
moment her dressing-table, and at the next a city, very far
off with twinkling lights and covering of snow. Then with
a sense of tremendous relief she bound together and found
common cause for these phenomena, both her monstrous
thoughts and the unreal, uncertain scale of material and
familiar objects. Her own headache and shivering gave
her a clue, and she told herself, as was quite true, that
she had a touch of fever, and that her brain, in abstract
affairs even as though the medium of her eyes was playing
her tricks. And she gave a little sigh of reassurement.

18

274 JUGGERNAUT ]

" Oh, that all's right, then !" she said to herself ; and
closing her eyes to shut out the giddiness of these varying
sizes of things, she shut the mental eye also, and forebore
to note more of the impressions which were, in all proba-
bility, equally unreal.

Poor Margery's explanations to herself of these diver-
gencies from stability of size in material objects that night
was completely justified next day when a few questions
by the doctor and the evidence of a clinical thermometer
convicted her of influenza. And that, though she was
sufficiently uncomfortable and depressed, continued to
be a relief, for sensibly, and with probability to back her,
she was content for the present, without further examina-
tion, to put down her psychical discomfort of the night
before to physical causes. So her wise, anxious, little
aching head was at once busy about Arnold again, devising
for his comfort, anxious for him not to come near her for
fear of infection, and wondering how to get some sort of
companionship for him. Perhaps his mother would come

for a week, perhaps

There came a knock at the door, and his voice asking if
he might come in, and Margery sat up in bed.

" Yes, dear, but don't come close to me," she said.
" Perhaps it would be even safer if you didn't come into
the room at all. Poor dear, I hope you won't feel very
lonely. I was wondering if mother would come for a bit
and keep you company."

Arnold had remained obediently remote from her bed.
The window was open, but the air outside very still, and a
draught coming from the opened door brought to her the
vague pungency of eucalyptus.

" Ah, you dear, sensible boy," she said, " have heaps of
eucalyptus about, and aren't oranges supposed to keep off
infection ? Isn't it silly of me ? I am so vexed at myself.
But about your mother ?"

JUGGERNAUT 275

" Oh, I shall do very well," said he. " It's you who
matter, dear. I hope you don't feel very uncomfortable.
Head ache ?"

" Oh, it's nothing," said she. " I shall be well in no
time. Now, dear, don't stop here, and please, please,
don't come again. It's no use two people being ill instead
of one. But you might send me a little note now and then
to say how the work gets on. And send a telegram to
mother, won't you ? I'm not a bit bad. Good-bye,
dear."

" Am I altogether banished ?" he asked.

" Yes, altogether."

Margery lay down again and shut the lids over her
burning eyeballs. How sensible and quiet men were !
She knew she would not have been half so sensible if it
had been Arnold who was here instead of herself.

CHAPTER XIII

Thanks to the careful antiseptic precautions with which
Arnold was so right to surround himself, thanks also to
his implicit obedience to Margery's command that he
should not come near her, no s^Tnptom of having caught
the influenza from her manifested itself, and he spent
a very solitary but most industrious week while she was
stni confined to her room by an attack that, without
being serious, was undoubtedly sharp. Two or three
times every day he sent her a little note about his thoughts
and movements, and as many times a day, or even oftener,
her maid, who was installed for the time as nurse, informed
his man, who in turn repeated the bulletin to his master,
the state of the patient. He was not anxious about her
at any period during those days, for the doctor (whom
he completely trusted) told him that there was no need
for anxiety. Instead, therefore, of profitless expenditure
of nervous force in being fearful, he devoted himself even
more assiduously than ever to his work, and, striking
the happiest vein of literary composition, found that the
days passed in single pulsations of intellectual activity.
Never before had he known so bright a noonday of felici-
tous production, and sheet after sheet of manuscript,
exquisitely neat and with scarce an erasure, was added
to the pile that was to be read to Margery when she
should have made her recovery. But, though following
her advice with regard to withdrawing himself completely
from infectious possibilities, and making round him a halo

276

JUGGERNAUT 277

of antiseptic influences, he did not adopt her counsel in
asking his mother to keep him company, for he found
that he was getting on so admirably in complete solitude.
And on the eighth day of Margery's indisposition, when
for the first time she was to come downstairs again, he
counted up the pages that he had written in her absence,
and found that they amounted to what, at the ordinary'
rate of production, would represent at least a fortnight's
instead of a week's work. He was amazed at this result
himself, and it was the parent of reflections.

The doctor, who made his final visit that day, and
sanctioned her coming downstairs, gave Arnold his report
before leaving. This had occurred at about eleven, after
he had got to work, and, since ^^larger}- was getting up
now and would be do\Mi before long, it followed that
Arnold had to expect a rather broken morning, since he
had quite determined to leave his work again to give her
welcome to the ground floor. But it must not be supposed
that it was with any conscious sense of ill-usage that he
faced this morning of " running in and out," which had
to take the place of the long uninterrupted hours to which
he had been accustomed. It was delightful that Margery
was better, and though he felt it would have been mere
convenient if the doctor had called, as he usually did,
in the afternoon, and that Margery was to come dovMi
after lunch instead of before, there would be no shadow
of reserve over his welcome of her. Indeed, after her
appearance, it was only hkely that he would sit and talk
to her, reading the paper or follov^ing her whim, till it
was time for him to take his stroll. To-morrow, perhaps,
she would join him in that again.

He had got so accustomed to complete silence in the
hall on to which his study opened that to-day the least
noise there attracted his attention, and he went out to
find Margery, looking rather white and uncertain of step,

278 JUGGERNAUT

at the foot of the stairs. She made a Httle gesture of dis-
may when he appeared.

" Oh, I thought I was coming down so quietly," she
said, " and meant to burst in upon you at one. I never
intended to disturb you before, Arnold."

He felt charmed by her thoughtfulness, though he play-
fully scolded her for it.

" Then it was very unkind of you, my dear," he said.
" As if I should wish to be left undisturbed when you make
your triumphal descent again. Welcome down again,
dear. Now, where will you sit ? In your room, or in
my study ? It is sunnier there."

" But are you sure I shan't disturb you ?" she asked.

" I wish to be disturbed by you. And what shall we
do — read or talk ?"

The words were sufficiently welcoming, but — but there
were no harmonics, so to speak, awakened by them.
Margery's instinct detected the lack of spontaneity, the
presence of a plan ; he was proposing, she felt sure, not
what he wanted, but what he thought was expected of
him. There was no sense in his losing more of his morn-
ing's work for the sake of doing what was suitable merely.
Then, almost without pause, he spoke again.

" Remember, I haven't seen you for a week," he said.

She was right, and knew it. Otherwise that must have
been his heart's first cry, uttered without thought, not
coming afterwards like this, to account for his willing
sacrifice of his morning. Her own heart missed a spon-
taneity in his, just as it had missed, all this week, his dis-
obedience to her command not to come and see her. She
would so have liked him to be obstinate and foolish and
headstrong. Yet, quite sincerely, while she refused to
interrupt him, she commended his obedience.

" I know you've been a very good and obedient boy,"
she said, " and I reward you by disobedience, don't I,

JUGGERNAUT 279

since I quite refuse to come and sit with you. But I
shall come at one, may I, Arnold, and send you out for a
walk ?"

" You are dreadfully wilful," he said. " But you shall
have your way. Yes, dear, do come and tell me when it
is one. It is good to see you down again !"

Margery's sharp attack had wrought its usual havoc,
and for the next week she was the victim of severe and
heroically concealed depression. Her very success at
concealing it from Arnold but added to it in some malign
fashion. She was delighted at her success, but secretly
and with upbraidings of self longed for him to see how
miserable she felt. Though doing her very best to appear
in the zenith of content, she could scarcely believe that
her histrionic forces were such as to make him believe she
was there. And all the time he gave her that intercourse
which she most desired, the news of his successful work.
Perhaps he saw her depression, and most sensibly and
lovingly tried to take her mind off herself by diverting it
into a channel that was so well beloved. But when the
worst moments came, she told herself (instantly though
somewhat faintly contradicting her own information) that
he talked of his book because he thought of his book.

She had written to Walter in Athens during the period
of her seclusion upstairs, and had written in the most
optimistic of veins, giving him the news, it is true, of her
influenza, but treating it as a thing that was not of the
smallest consequence. She had but stated the fact of
it, stated that Arnold's book was going on in the most
swimming fashion, and said that he was most obedient
to her mandate of not coming to see her, and that she
had not set eyes on him for five days. And on this
morning Walter's reply came : the dear fellow must have
answered her letter without an hour's delay.

28o JUGGERNAUT

" I wish I had been at home," he wrote, " and I bet I
would have cheered you up a Httle. But I dare say
influenza is awfully infectious, and probably I should
have caught it, so that when you got a little better you
would have had to come over to Ballards to cheer me up.
I am glad Arnold is getting on so well with his work ; isn't
it nearly finished now ? Do persuade him to bring you
out here — make your doctor say you want change of air.
Even if he hasn't finished his book it will all help him.
He can have a sitting-room to himself and grub away
for all he is worth. But your letter sounds rather de-
pressed. I don't know why I think so, but it does.
And if he can't come, there's Olive, who wants to.
Just telegraph, and we'll illuminate the Parthenon for
you."

It was close on one o'clock when this letter arrived, and
Margery had but glanced through it when Arnold came in.
She had quite fallen back into the ordered use of the
house, and never saw him till the sacred hours of the
morning were over. To-day he came in with beaming
cheerfulness ; she, quick to read him, knew that the work
must have gone well. Nothing else just at present stood
so much in the foreground of his life.

" Good-morning, little woman," he said. " How
quietly you stole down to-day ! I had no idea when you
made your descent. Or was it that I was more than
usually absorbed ? Any news ?"

There was a letter in the Times about some excavations
made by the British School of Archaeology at Athens on
the site of Sparta. Margery had just noted the fact,
though she had felt too tired and listless to read the
communication.

" Something about Sparta in the Times," she said.
" And I heard from Walter."

He took up the paper and glanced at it.

JUGGERNAUT 281

" Yes, before my epoch," he remarked. " And what
of Walter ?"

She handed him the letter.

" He wants us to go out," she said. " What a pity
we can't !"

Arnold glanced through the letter, and laughed with
just a shade of annoyance.

" I don't think Walter has the slightest idea of the scale
on which I am writing," he said, " when he asks if the
book isn't nearly finished yet. I might as well ask if he
will be an ambassador soon."

He looked at Margery as he gave it her back, and was
struck by her pallor and listlessness. The doctor had
said that probably a change of air would do her good after
her illness, and Walter's notion seemed to him to have
something in it. Not that he could go himself ; that, of
course, was not to be thought of.

" Though, after all, how should Walter know," he said,
" since I really do not think I bore the general public
with details about the work which I know appeals to so
few. But this idea of going out to Athens. Would you
like it, dear ?"

Margery's face brightened.

" Oh, Arnold, you don't mean it, do you ?" she asked.

I should love it — love it ! I just long to get away ; one
feels like that after influenza. And you would be able to
work so well out there on the spot "

Margery had completely misunderstood. He hastened
to put her right.

" My darling, what are you thinking of ?" he said. " I
can't possibly go. I dare not. Athens might not suit
me, the work would be interrupted, and who knows when
I might pick up the thread again ? I was referring to
Walter's idea that you and Olive might go out."

The light died out of her face again.

282 JUGGERNAUT

" And what are you thinking of," she asked, " if you
imagine I could leave you ?"

A chill tattoo of rain sounded on the window, and he
glanced up, while the medley of reflections which had
been suggested to him by the speed and brilliance of his
week of absolutely uninterrupted work suddenly took
shape and form.

" One of those October squalls," he said. " Let us sit
and talk instead of going out. And let us be two very
sensible people. Now, dear. You want change ; you
need it, while change for me just now would be really
hazardous. It sounds dreadfully egoistic to talk about
inspiration, but certainly I am in the happiest vein of
work, and I dare not meddle with it, or alter the conditions
which are so favourable to it. And all the time you were
upstairs, Margery, all that dreary week, the work-vein
was at its happiest. So you must not think that you are
deserting me, if I persuade you, as I mean to do, to go
away, even if not to Athens. You need change for your
health. Take it, dear, and while you are away think of
me as tremendously occupied, frenzicdly busy. Dear me,
what a lot I shall have to read you when you come back !"

Through Margery's brain, all unbidden, but quite lucid
and distinct, came the thought : " He wants to be alone ;
he would sooner I was not here." Then, so close on its
heels that none but she could have said there was any
interval between the two, came her heart's comment on
it. " Of course, I will go ; of course he shall be alone if
he wishes." And nothing but that appeared in her
speech.

" Yes, I do believe a change would do me good," she
said ; " though I think Athens is rather too long a flight
alone or, anyhow, without you. But, as you really won't
be lonely without me, I shall write to your mother and
propose myself for a week. She is back in Norfolk now ;

JUGGERNAUT 283

I heard from her yesterday. So the two sensible people
have settled it."

But all the time something that dwelt in the innermost
place of her heart cried out and rebelled. She shut her
ears to its cry, she barred up the rebel. But the echoes
of the weeping voice reached her, though only remotely
and confusedly. It called out dreadful comparisons,
shouting to her to imagine what Walter would have done
had he been in Arnold's place, what she would have done
if she had been in Arnold's place and he in hers. And
she shut her ears more tightly yet.

Mrs. Morrison had come over to inquire about Margery
once or twice during the last ten days, but she had not
gone upstairs to see her niece, not, as she was careful to
explain, because she feared infection herself, but because
it was not right to risk carrying it to Olive. She drove
over again this afternoon and found Margery in, for the
October squall had developed into half a gale of driven
rain, and she had not gone out. Arnold was house-bound
also, but on the appearance of Mrs. Morrison's motor had
retreated delicately to his room.

" And I declare I should scarcely have known you, my
dear Margery," she said, with her usual tactful felicity —
" so pulled down and pale as you look ! But though it
was such a wet day, I thought I must come over to see
you, for what with your leaving London right at the
beginning of the season like that " — Mrs. Morrison had
not nearly got over her resentful mystification on this
subject, and was moving the date of their departure
steadily earlier — " and your shutting yourself up here all
these months, it is seldom enough I get a peep at you.
We have had some most amusing people staying with us —
Mr. Trefusis, who writes those delightful novels, and when
I told him that you left town in order that Arnold should
have quiet for the writing of his book, he could scarcely

284 JUGGERNAUT

believe his ears, for he says it must be impossible to write
without stimulus, and I should think he ought to know,
considering he runs through edition after edition. I
suppose Arnold's book will be quite finished by now, and
you will be having some parties, though I'm sure you
don't look up to entertaining anybody."

" Oh, I'm not going to try !" said Margery. " Indeed,
I'm going away myself in a few days, if Mrs. Leveson can
have me. Arnold stops here to go on with his book,
which isn't nearly finished yet. But it's going on beauti-
fully. You see, Mr. Trefusis may want one sort of
stimulus and Arnold another."

" I'm sure I should be puzzled to say what stimulus a
man could find in seeing nobody but his wife, especially
if she has the influenza and is going away," said Mrs.
Morrison. " I often have to take myself to task for being
inclined to get lazy and idle in the country, and Olive
told me only the other day — on Wednesday, I think —
that she gets through less work here than when we are
in the whirl of London. And if she is to be considered as
having an unnatural craving for excitement, I am sure
it is the first I have heard of it. But perhaps you are
right, and I have been wrong all these years."

Margery had a helpless feeling, to which those who
talked to Mrs. Morrison were not strangers, that she had
no idea what she was talking about. But that was Mrs.
Morrison's way. Like a carrier-pigeon, she was accus-
tomed to take several wide circles first, before she settled
the direction in which to fly. If nothing of the nature
of a landmark appeared she continued to circle until she
was tired. She circled a little more now, though some-
thing was beginning to catch her eye.

" Walter, too," she continued — though why she said
" too " is a phenomenon of baffling mystery — " Walter,
too, writes to me in a way I cannot understand. He

JUGGERNAUT 285

wants Olive to go out to see him there, or was it Olive
who suggested that ? Anyhow, he seems most unsettled,
and not certain if he can get back home for a week or two
at Christmas or not. One hardly knows what to do,
whether to tell people he is coming home, or that he is not.
It sounds so foolish to say one does not know, since it is
not unreasonable that I should be supposed to know
what my only son's plans are. If I had a large family it
would be different, and I should understand. But what
I ask myself is, what can have occurred to make him so
vague and unsettled ?"

Margery could only guess herself, but she quite frankly
gave her aunt her conjectures for what they were worth.

" I heard from him only this morning," she said, " and
in his letter he says he hopes that Arnold and I, or,
failing him, Olive and I, may come out and pay him a
visit. Very likely he is only waiting to hear from me
before making his plans about coming home."

The landmark appeared ; Mrs. Morrison flew straight
for it, though in speech she pretended to be going in an
opposite direction.

" That does not sound to me in the least likely,
Margery," she said. " From what I know of Walter it
is quite foreign to him to treat me in this way, neither
saying yes nor no, while he waits for you to settle whether
you will come to visit him. I do not know Walter, if I
am to think you are right about that. It is true that once,
in his mere boyhood — well, there is no reason to go into
that. But in any case your explanation seems to me
to be very far-fetched. He could easily have said to
you : ' Do not arrange to come at Christmas, as I shall
be at Ballards then,' or ' Christmas will suit excellently,
as I have no intention of being at Ballards then.' No ; I
should not wonder if he had got interested in some Greek
girl, probably of no family at all, for I am told that

286 JUGGERNAUT

society at Athens is so mixed that you may be talking to
a Turk or an infidel without suspecting it, of no family
at all, I say, and with the inflammatory nature he has,
which he inherited from I don't know whom, is dangling
after her. I do not mind saying these things to you now,
since you are a married woman, though I should not dream
of saying them to Olive, who, though she is so much
older than you, has been the victim of disappointed
hopes. Not that she ever complains, for she has a self-
respect which does her credit, and I may say, me also,
for though I was married out of the schoolroom, that was
but a mere accident ; and in other ways Olive is singularly
like what I was when I was her age. And I am sure no
one will be sorrier than Olive when she hears, not that I
shall tell her, but things get about in a most extraordinary
manner, that you are going away without your husband,
and if it would be at all a comfort to you to tell me about
it, Margery, I shall be very happy to listen, and give you
the best advice I can. But as for Walter not being able
to settle whether he is coming home or not for Christmas,
just because you may be going out to Athens, I can only
say that I am sure it is all the greatest nonsense, and that
such a notion never entered his head. I shall tell him
it didn't when next I write. Besides which, it would be
impossible for you to attempt to make so long a journey

then."

The futility and discursiveness of these remarks were
not quite so wild as they sounded. They were not, any-
how, a mere handful of loose beads taken up at random
out of Mrs. Morrison's mind, and pelted at Margery, but
were, so to speak, all on one thread. And the thread
that bound them together into this ornamental whole
was, broadly speaking, spite. The frequency of Walter's
visits to Elmhurst during his leave had been sufficient to
make her fear that he had not " got over " his absurd

JUGGERNAUT 287

infatuation for Margery, and her disgusting mind liked
putting that idea into Margery's head, saddhng her with
having thought of it, and then contradicting it. Similarly
— for Olive's sake, as she would have admitted, if pressed
on the subject — she liked to imagine that something was
wrong between Margery and Arnold, and liked suggesting
that to Margery. And at the bottom of this amazing
tissue of false suggestion there was, unhappily, an under-
lying truth. Walter was in love with Margery, and every-
thing was not quite right between Margery and her
husband. But the whole of the superstructure was as
unreal as the colour of her hair, which she had lately
caused to be dyed.

But if she really hoped to get anything out of Margery
by this wild brandishing of words, she was doomed to
disappointment. Margery listened till she had quite
finished, and a little heightening of colour alone showed
that she had heard. And in her heart was nothing but
a sort of wondering pity. Then she rose and rang the
bell.

" How nice of you to come on such a wet day and give
me all the news, Aunt Aggie !" she said. " Though it is
so early, shall we have tea ? I think one always wants
tea earlier on wet afternoons."

" But you tell me nothing, Margery," said Mrs. Morri-
son, making an appeal, as insults had no effect. " Of
course, all young couples, though I am sure Arnold might
have married someone nearer his own age, have their little
disagreements. I remember one I had with my husband,
which began about curry, just curry at lunch, when I
must have been even younger than you, and from curry
there was no telling to what lengths it would have gone,
if I had not had a little tact and cleverness, though that
was no credit to me, since I suppose I inherited them.
Or shall I ask Arnold what has been the cause of this

288 JUGGERNAUT

resolve of yours to go away without him, and see what
can be done ?"

Margery, still weak from her influenza, felt a little
dazed. It was as if somebody said : " Do confess about
this dreadful thing that has happened !" when nothing
dreadful had happened. But all the time there came a
little remote cry from the imprisoned denizen, which
wanted to say what his account of the matter was. Only
he did not want to say it to Aunt Aggie.

" The cause of my going away, Aunt Aggie," said
Margery, " is that I really rather want a change. The
cause of Arnold's not going with me is that he is very
busy with his book. I think you take sugar, don't you ?
Tell Mr. Leveson that tea is ready," she said to the foot-
man, " and that Mrs. Morrison would like to see him."

" Do not let us disturb him if he is at work," said that
lady rather hastily. " I always made a point of not
disturbing poor Leonard when he was busy. Men hate
being disturbed, and "

" You needn't go to Mr. Leveson," said Margery to the
servant. " And cream. Aunt Aggie, or milk ? How odd
that I should forget, when I have seen you have tea so
many times ! Do let me guess : I think it is milk with a
little cream as well. I remember Olive's plan quite
distinctly. She always had milk with just a little tea
poured into it. And Walter had cream and four lumps
of sugar, and, for preference, tea that had been standing
and had got cool and black. After all, I don't remember
so badly."

Margery had won ; Mrs. Morrison retired baffled, and
talked about Pug, with hardly diminished volubility. But
she did not propose to forget Margery's secretiveness.
There was no question about forgiving it ; such an idea
never occurred to her.

When her aunt had gone, Margery found herself longing

JUGGERNAUT 289

for fresh air — fresh air, that is to say, of the mental kind,
something to breathe freely, for she had the impression of
having been obliged to hold her breath for fear of inhaling
a very stuffy, if not a poisonous, atmosphere. She made
no attempt from any feeling of just indignation to recollect
what her aunt had said, or to recite the excellent causes
she had for anger : she merely wanted to forget all about
it, not give it another moment's harbourage in her brain.
And if only Arnold would read to her, she could think of
no more admirable breeze to send through her mind, a
breeze that would take her on to the sunlit heights of the
Acropolis, show her the wonderful temple to the virgin
goddess of wisdom, now a-building in his book. White
and dazzling was the marble of which it was made, hewn
from the purple sides of Pentelicus, and the building was
worthy of her in whose honour it was built. It was not
Arnold's regular time for work ; he had only retreated to
avoid Mrs. Morrison, and Margery was not trespassing on
sacred hours. So she went to his study and entered.

He did not hear her entry, but he was not writing ; his
eyes were fixed dreamily on the wall opposite, though the
pen was in his hand and the ink of the last words not yet
dry. Then he turned his head slowly and saw her, and
it was as if he woke out of a dream.

" Margery !" he said incredulously. " You here ?"

Then — it was no pose in him ; he had been literally
absorbed — he gave a little upward gesture of his head, a
little shrug of his shoulders.

" Ah, tea is ready, or something equally important !" he
said. " You startled me ; I had no conception really
where I was. Let us have tea, then ; I am back at
Elmhurst."

Margery gave a dismal little sigh.

" Oh dear, I am so sorry !" she said. " It wasn't your
regular hour for work, you see, and you came in here to

19

290 JUGGERNAUT

avoid Aunt Aggie. I didn't think I should be interrupting
you."

He looked at her pale, tired face, touching in its appeal.

" Well, well, my dear," he said ; " it is of no conse-
quence. No doubt I shall be able to get back the thread
of what I was writing. I think I will go on writing for
the present, Margery. Do not wait tea for me."

Margery went to stay with her mother-in-law a day or
two after this, intending originally to remain with her
for a week. But towards the end of that time she received
a letter so urgently expressed from her husband, begging
her not to hurry back, but consolidate her convalescence,
that she stopped with her another ten days. In that
time she had quite renewed her usual serenity of health,
and returned home with all her enthusiasm for his work
rekindled, and aware from her changed attitude, how
nearly at one time she had come to hating this writing,
exquisite though it was, that had grown to isolate her from
her husband. But when she came back she found that
this isolation had become immeasurably greater during
her absence. Hitherto, when not writing he had dis-
tracted himself from the age of Pericles, but now, when
strolling with her, or at meals, it seemed that no more
than the mere mechanical part of his brain, that which
moved his limbs or chewed his food, was at his command.
Sometimes he would rouse himself and ask what she had
been doing, or what she was going to do, but the contact
with her or any of the ordinary interests of life was as
light and as momentary as the contact of drifting thistle-
down, that having touched earth, rebounded again into
the current of the wind that swept it along. The readings,
too, by which Margery felt that she was kept in touch
with him and the workings of that weaving mind, were
discontinued. He found, with regret, that to go back
to an earlier part of his work dulled the fineness of per-

JUGGERNAUT 291

ception with which he handled the current chapter.
Margery, it is true, was at hberty to take sections from
his pile of completed manuscript and read them to herself,
but even this was found not to work satisfactorily, for
he had occasion now and then to refer to these earlier
chapters or insert a cross-reference, and thus the morning
hours or the sacred evening was interrupted. So also was
Margery's reading.

Throughout the autumn months and through the
snowy days of a wintry December the solitary sundered
life of the two pursued its uninterrupted course. But
some day the book would be finished — Margery found it
necessary to seek for consolatory thoughts — and he would
come back to her. At present she felt, and felt truly,
that she had no significant existence for him ; she who
sat opposite him at table, or walked by his side on the
path that had been swept clean of its half-frozen slush,
was no more to him than the footman who handed dishes
or the snow-capped shrubs. All that she was capable of,
with regard to him, was not to interrupt him. About
irruption into the study she had already learned her
lesson, and there was no more of that, but in subtler ways
she might interrupt him by not being where he expected
her to be. He might miss her opposite him at table, as
he might miss an elm that had fallen down. Everything
had to be just as he expected it ; he did not want anything
of the familiar affairs that surrounded him, except their
mere presence. Their absence might be upsetting.
Naturally, there was no thought of guests coming to stay
in the house, and even less idea of any of those very
numerous invitations which desired the presence of
Margery and her husband being accepted. The essential
was that the sheaf of manuscript should be given its
opportunity to grow till the last page was written.
Certainly no thought of other dispositions of the time

292 JUGGERNAUT

entered his brain, and if into Margery's any burglarious
entry was forced, she repelled the intruder.

No chronicle, therefore, of the last three months of the
year is possible, except that it may be said that Mrs.
Morrison continued to wonder what it was all about.
Until the illuminating Mr. Trefusis had spoken so freely
on the subject of writing books she had felt that there
might be some mysterious cabalism necessary for their
production. But when he had said that he constantly
dined out or had friends to dinner, even when his enter-
taining works were in the throes of conception or execution,
she confessed to herself and Olive that she did not under-
stand what ailed Arnold. Perhaps he was ill — that was
by far the most charitable of the various solutions that
occurred to her, and if so Margery ought to insist on his
seeing a doctor instead of going on saying that he was
writing a book. It was mere folly, too, to tell people
that he had been writing a book every day since the
middle of June. Books did not take as long as that to
be written ; Mr. Trefusis dashed them off in no time, with-
out all this fuss of not going out to dinner, and calling it
" stimulus."

Then, in January, about the middle of a dark and
depressing month, events began to move again, and the
psychical effect of these industrious, solitary weeks came
into action.

It was in the middle of the sacred morning hours :
eleven had chimed from the stable clock, but it was not
yet near twelve, and Margery, as usual, had seen the
cook, had written her letters, and was slightly at a loss
to know what to do on this morning of rain and gusty
wind that drove sheets of pattering drops against the
panes, and sent stinging discharges of smoke down the
chimney. Arnold's chimney was the worst offender, and
he had implied, when he fetched a coat to work in,

JUGGERNAUT 293

having beaten the fire out, that somebody, not he, ought to
have prevented these inconveniences. For the last week
or more she had seen that some change was taking place in
the manner of his mental activities — though still very in-
dustrious and sitting for longer hours than ever before over
his work, he was losing his serenity, and looked worried
and anxious. There had been days, too, of but fitful
occupation : once he had taken a morning's holiday, and
had fallen asleep in a chair in the drawing-room, and
more than once he had cut short the evening spell of
work and challenged Margery to a duel at Patience
instead. And as she looked out through the blurred
window-panes to-day, wishing that she was a little more
occupied, he a little less, she wondered where this change
was going to lead. There were, as he had told her only
to-day, several more months' work in front of him before
he could even expect to see the end of the book, and she
was afraid he was beginning to get overworked. If he
only would stop for a few weeks ! She had suggested
that : his answer had been the renewal of his industry.
Even while this thought was in her head he entered.

" I have stuck," he said. " I can't get on at all. For
the last ten days this has been threatening. What's the
matter with me ?'

Margery's hands were outstretched towards him ; it
was as if she held her heart in them.

" Why, nothing is the matter with you, dear," she said,
" except that you are tired. My darling, think what
you've been doing — working without break for over six
months. Now you shall shut every book up till you are
rested again, and we'll play."

" I wonder if that's it," he said. " I feel as if I had
run up against a blank wall. I can't plan my sentences ;
I know what Fve got to say, but I can't say it."

" And you shan't try to," said Margery. " Why, you

294 JUGGERNAUT

told me that just the same thing had happened when you
were doing the Alexandria book. WTiat a good thing I'm
here to play with you I"

He turned eyes of tenderness on her.

" You darling/' he said, " I believe you are right.
Anyhow, it is the most likely explanation. But I
expect you'll have to teach me how to play — I've for-
gotten."

She laughed, happier just then than she had been for
months.

" Oh no, you haven't, though very likely you are a
little out of practice. You shaU begin gently by sitting
down in that chair and smoking a cigarette and reading
the paper."

" I think I win tidy up my w^ork first," he said, " if I
really am going to have a holiday."

" xAU right ; I will come with you. Oh, it wiU be nice
to have a morning together again."

" WTiat does one do if one doesn't work ?" he said.
" Really, I have forgotten."

" You shall see," said Margery. " Now, the papers
first. Oh, Arnold, is that great pile there aU completed
manuscript ? No wonder you have forgotten ever\-thing
else. And here's the last page, isn't it ? That goes at
the bottom of the rest. And all the phrases on the slips of
paper ? You will keep them, won't you ? There, that's
aU put to bed."

A week of idleness followed, during which Margery
stuck bravely to a very uphill task indeed. For the
present anyhow, with the cessation of his work all
zest had gone out of his life, It was quite true,
as he had said, that he had forgotten how to play. She
urged him to have people to stay, but the idea did not
appeal to him : she suggested that they should pay a
couple of visits together, or go somewhere on the south

JUGGERNAUT 295

coast where they might hope to find sun and a greater
clemency of weather. But this found as Httle favour
with him, and from day to day he grew more apathetic
and more clearly bored. That simple word expressed
more accurately than could pages of analj^is his state of
mind, and Margery faced it. He was here alone with her
and bored. It seemed to her quite natural that he should
find it dull, and she did her best to suggest distractions
for him. But he did not want them : the taste had gone,
and he looked with longing eyes towards the vanished
Athens and the days of Pericles.

So for him she had to invent distractions, and, if not
amusement, devices to make the hours pass less intoler-
ably. But on her own account she had to fight a more
potent enemy — namely, the sense of bitter disappoint-
ment that she could do so httle to make him happy and
serene.

It was not towards her, but towards his vanished
Athens, that he turned his e3'es, and an idea began to form
itself in his mind. \Miat if he went there for a week or
two ? It was no new idea in itself — there had been
thoughts of Margery in the autumn going alone. She
would not now be able to go with him, since she expected
her child before the end of February, but he could easily
go there for a week or two and be back before that. He
wanted, and had alwaj's wanted, to go there — indeed,
before the book was finished a \'isit would be necessary,
and this seemed so opportune an occasion. Frankly, this
solitude here was not an entire success : no doubt Margery
was right and he wanted a change, even as she had done
in the autumn. But it was foolish to go boring oneself
in hotels on the south coast, and he felt that to stay in
other people's houses and be in evidence all day, or to
have people staying here, would be an intolerable afflic-
tion. There was London, it was true, but just now

296 JUGGERNAUT

London was empty of people and full of fogs. He
wanted none of these things.

One thing only deterred him, the uncertainty as to how
Margery would take the proposal. It would have been
quite an ideal plan if she had been able to come with
him, but, though she could not, he hoped that she might
still welcome it. On the other hand, it was possible that
she might be hurt, though that would be unreasonable,
since he in the autumn had encouraged her to do exactly
the same thing by herself. While he was away she could
stay with some of those numerous people who were always
scolding her for burying herself in the country, or have
them to stay here. And this also occurred to him — they
had been quite alone for the last seven months ; it was
time they had a little change. She was the dearest, far
the dearest, thing in the world ; he loved her as he had
never loved anyone else, but surely a little change was
reasonable. She would understand — surely she would
understand.

Patience behaved in a lamblike manner that evening,
and Arnold had played his three games before ten o'clock.
The day had been particularly vile, and neither he nor
Margery had stirred out of doors. The papers had been
empty of interest ; the novel that Margery had recom-
mended him had only served the purpose of making him
fall asleep after tea. Yet perhaps it could not have done
better ; he had slept for nearly an hour. And now, on
the conclusion of the third game, Margery had come and
sat by his chair on the floor, leaning back against his
knees, and he found himself wondering what to talk about.
Then the Athens idea occurred to him with sudden and
overwhelming attractiveness, and he determined to speak.

" Margery dear, I've got a plan," he began.

Margery instantly interrupted.

" Oh, I am glad," she said. " Is it a nice one ?"

JUGGERNAUT 297

" I think so. But I don't know what you will think
of it."

Margery nestled back a little further, pressing her
shoulders between his knees.

" There, I am comfortable," she said ; " now tell me
the plan. I enjoy things more when I am comfortable."

" Well, dear, I think I want a change," he said. " I
certainly have rather overworked, and it is not easy to
settle down to do nothing when one has been very busy."

"As if I didn't know that," said she, " and as if I
hadn't been suggesting every place and person that I
could think of to amuse you ! But have you thought of
anything ,? Is that the plan ? I do hope so."

" Yes. Athens — just for a couple of weeks."

Mar.:, cry gave a great sigh.

" Oh, dear I wish I had thought of that," she said ;
" and how I wish I could come with you ! You will have
to go without me, you know ; but, after all, you will
find Walter there, so he'll look after you."

" Then you approve ?"

" As if I could help approving ! It's a perfect plan.
It will give you holiday, and yet the holiday will be
soaking into you and feeding you. I shall miss you dread-
fully, and I wouldn't have you not go for anything. I
wish you could start to-morrow, but there's no reason
why you shouldn't go the day after. Send a telegram
to Walter, put a toothbrush in a piece of paper, and go,"
said Margery dramatically. " But what in the world
made you think I shouldn't approve ?"

" Just what you have said — that you will miss me
dreadfully."

" Yes, dear, and you'll miss me," said Margery placidly.

She laughed quietly, laying her face against his knee.

" And now confess, dear," she said. " Haven't you
been bored this last ten days ? Of course you have, but

298 JUGGERNAUT

I really did suggest all the things I could think of. You
couldn't help being bored ; quite suddenly all the tension
and interest was removed, and, of course, you went slack.
You needn't confess."

She hid her face from him a moment.

" But you'll be back by the middle of February, won't
you ?" she said. " Not before. Take three weeks in
Athens, and, oh, I hope you will have a delicious time,
and every moment I shall wish you back, and every
moment I shall be delighted you are not."

All Margery's heart was in her voice ; there was no
back thought in her mind of any sort. And with soft,
shining eyes she again raised her head and looked at
him.

CHAPTER XIV

Arnold was sitting at the writing-table in his sitting-
room at the hotel, overlooking the big square in front
of the Royal Palace at Athens. The table — the largest
that the proprietor could find him — was a ranged battle-
field of books and papers, which had arrived from England
two days before. The books formed a rampart all along
the edge, and were kept erect by two small blocks of
Pentalic marble, which he had picked up on the Acropolis
on the first day of his arrival, and had furtively pocketed.
In front of the books lay packets of orderly papers, tall
among which was the manuscript of his book. A Tanagra
figurine, which he had bought yesterday, slim, gracious,
insouciante, stood by his inkstand, and round his blotting-
pad was spread the mosaic of felicitous phrases, already
largely added to. Margery, dear girl, had forgotten
nothing ; she had even sent out his pens and inkstand,
so that he might not have to get accustomed to unfamiliar
implements. She had also written him the most heartfelt
note of congratulation at the fact of his needing all his
materials again, though was he quite sure he was wise
in beginning work again so soon ? It was a dear note,
and he had read it through twice. He was, however,
quite sure that he was wise in beginning work again. He
could not, indeed, do otherwise ; it was an irresistible
compulsion that he obeyed.

He had been in Athens a little more than a week, but
the moment he set foot in the town of matchless beauty

299

300 JUGGERNAUT

and immortal memories, the magic of its spell was on him.
For three days he did no more than wander, strolling
up to the Acropolis after breakfast, sitting for a space,
maybe, on the steps of the Temple of Wingless Victory,
then with hushed step going gently through the glittering
doorways of the Propyleea to find himself faced by the
supreme temple. It was no wonder that the place so
moved him ; for seven months now he had been absorbed
and steeped in the history of the wonderful people, and
now, when it was made incarnate to the eye, the weight
and weariness was lifted from his brain, and the vigour
of the age he wrote of revivified him. Nor was it that
alone ; he saw how truly he had grasped and realised the
spirit of that age ; all through his book he had referred
all the splendours of their achievements to that which
wholly dominated them, their worship and love of beauty.
Flawless were the works of their hands and heads ; there
was no possibility of arguing about the taste of this
ornamentation or the proportion of that column. It was
simpler and safer to take them for what they were,
perfect examples of the beauty of form, and remodel
one's own taste, if necessary, till it admitted that, saw it,
believed it.

But the magic extended outside the town and its white
marbles ; to him the whole of Attica was sacred soil, and
it was with a sense of awe and wonder, second only to
that which he experienced when he first set foot on the
Acropolis, that one afternoon he went up Pentelicus
with Walter — Pentelicus out of whose marble flanks were
hewn the stones that crowned the Acropolis with its
white splendours. Higher and higher they climbed,
the horizon of the sea rising with them till it overtopped
the peak of Hymettus even, and from the top, looking
down, there were sacred memories on every side. Far
away across the dim blue of the straits slept Euboea ;

JUGGERNAUT 301

below them there was a little semicircular bay fringed
with yellow sand, and that was Marathon, where the
might of the barbaric East was throttled. Then, on the
other side, beyond the boulder-strewn hill up which they
had come, lay the plain of Attica, Acropolis-rock standing
sentinel in its midst. Farther, again, was the sea, the
bay of Phalerum, Salamis, iEgina, words that were music
in themselves to the ear, but below lurked the music of
their meaning, their symphony of deathless melodies.

Walter had understood his mood well.

" I know you haven't come here to dance and dine,"
he said, " so I shan't bother you. I'm here, that's all.
If you want anything, ask me. I know you like walking
in the afternoon, so I'll be charmed to come out with
you any and every day if you'll let me know. Otherwise,
I'll leave you to Pericles."

Three days passed thus, he drinking deep of the place
and finding in it, as must always happen, what he had
brought to it, feeling his deep reverence for the creators
of it endorsed and ratified. And then, with the sudden-
ness of lightning-stroke the absolute necessity of setting
to work again came upon him. A telegram must be de-
spatched at once to Margery, and all the books in the re-
volving bookcase by his writing-table, all the manuscript,
everything connected with his work had to be sent out
registered and insured by the quickest possible method
of transit. He could not even wait for their arrival, but
began at once on what was to be the introduction to the
book, the description of Athens as it was before the age
of Pericles, and the description of Athens when his
sculptors and builders had done their work. He had
intended — and how inadequate would have been the
execution, as he saw now — to write that merely from his
knowledge. What a valley of dry bones would have
been spread there ! Now, quickened by the sight, the

302 JUGGERNAUT

dry bones would live; stand up. The dimensions of the
Parthenon, the number of its columns, the arrangement
of its frieze and its metopes were, of course, already
minutely known to him. What he had not known was that
the living Parthenon was standing there, like some
beautiful living thing, domed by a sky whose blue was
of a quality he had never dreamed of, here glittering with
dazzling whiteness, there stained a molten orange-red
by the winds of the north-west, not built, or so it seemed,
by mortal hands, but growing out of the grey rock, a
flower, a star. . . .

He could scarcely believe that it was the same self who
for his last ten days of work in England had groped and
stumbled among crabbed and infelicitous sentences, and
who, when work was abandoned, felt neither zest nor an}'
joy in life, as he who now passed eager and transfigured
hours. The contrast between those cold dark davs of
January back there in England, and the crisp warm splen-
dour of these February noons was not more marked than
the difference between his slack and weary brain as it had
been last month, and the sparkling \igour of it now.
The enchanted things he saw, as he walked and sat alone,
musing, brooding, drinking in, seemed of their own
volition, by virtue of some magic inherent in themselves,
to transform themselves into jewelled sentences nor lose
one ray of the sunlight in which they were steeped.
Creation to him in these Athenian days was without
travail or labour ; he wrote with the rapture of the singing
bird.

He often thought of Margery — thought of her with
love and tenderness, and wrote to her by every mail.
But it would be idle to say that he missed her, for while
he lived like this in the intoxication of the town which
was truly home to his mind, and while his intellect, like
some long-winged bird with pinions stretched to the

JUGGERNAUT 303

uttermost, soared every day higher into the blaze of its
morning, it was scarcely possible for him to miss her. nor
did he really any longer wish that she was with him.
He wanted no distraction, he wanted the company of
nobody, and since his books and apparatus had arrived,
he had scarcely set eyes on Walter. The well-ordered
hotel gave him excellent meals at stated hours and
separate tables ; no wifely concern could have oiled the
wheels of material existence so as to produce smoother
running. And soon, so soon, those golden days would
be over, and he would be fl>'ing homewards again, un-
willing yet eager, torn away from what he loved intel-
lectually to join her who was his wife, and was very dear
to him, and wait with her for the birth of their child.

The days passed with dreadful swiftness, and when
one evening he laid down his pen after a long spell of work
far into the night, he remembered with a pang of emptiness
and sinking that he had but another clear day here.
And only to-day the Greek Government had begun on
an excavation which to him was full of absorbing interest,
and promised to settle conclusively the site of the famous
long walls which once united Pirsus with Athens. A
few days more would certainly show whether they were
on the right track or not, but a few days more were pre-
cisely what Arnold could not give. A few days more, too,
would see his introduction finished, and who could tell
whether, when back in the mists and chilliness of an English
February, he would be able to recapture that inspiration
which here possessed him ? Further, when once he left
Athens, he knew that it was likely that his work would
have to suffer a long interruption, since his time would
be much taken up, and the anxiety which would necessarily
attend the birth of his child would surely make it im-
possible to give his writing that undivided attention which
it so insistently claimed.

304 JUGGERNAUT

He strolled out on to his balcony ; the square was very
quiet and empty, and above the houses he could see the
top of the Acropolis, sleeping in brilliant moonshine.
The sky was quite clear, and full of large burning stars,
and from the Palace gardens to the left, though the
month was still only February, came the liquid bubble
of the earhest nightingales. Fragments of deathless Greek
song and echoes of enchanted myths rang in his head,
myths of Philomela and Procris, made immortal, it is
true, in English by the lyrics of that master of the lyric
mood, but derived and borrowed from Greek song and
Attic nights, such as was now turned to ivory by the
moonlight that fell on wood, and mountain, and carved
column, and lintel of marble doorways, and the far-off
shining of a tranquil sea. Forty-eight hours later he
would be on some ship, every turn of whose screw bore
him further from the enchanted land. Already he would
have watched the shores recede, and sink below the horizon
of Greek seas, and Walter would remain here, dining and
dancing, looking with less than tourist's eyes on temples
that were familiar to him as he walked by them on his way
to an excruciating golf links or grilled and pebbly lawn-
tennis court. A good fellow was Walter, but a little
barbarian in taste. He had accompanied Arnold to the
scene of excavation this afternoon, and had got tired of
watching for the gradual re-emergence of the long wall,
and had gone to have a game of tennis before dinner.
Tennis ! When the long walls were on the point of being
exhumed, and he could watch them ! If only he could be
in Walter's place for a few weeks, without the ties that
drew him homewards ! And Walter would be so glad
to be able to go to England for a few weeks. Only to-day
he had said that he was really thinking of taking his next
year's leave in two pieces — a month now, a month later, if
it could be arranged. Really fate was pleased to be ironical.

JUGGERNAUT 305

Fate was more ironical than he knew. Walter at the
same moment was looking out from his balcony on the
other side of the square, not cursing at, but certainly not
being appreciative of, the nightingale and the moonlight.
And he thought with longing of the clear note of the
blackbird, as he scudded over the lawn on chill February
mornings, of the cold and misty days, of the half-hour
of swift riding that so many times had brought him from
Ballards to the garden at Elmhurst.

And then suddenly Arnold made his resolve. It was
as likely as not, more likely than not, that if he went off
by Thursday's boat he would arrive in England a fort-
night before there was the least necessity for his being
there. He would, at any rate, telegraph to Margery,
asking whether he could stop another week. She would
understand that ; she would say " Yes " or " No,"
according to the circumstances.

Arnold's telegram went off early next morning, and
the reply was waiting for him when he came in at sunset
from the breathless suspense of an afternoon at the
excavations. The authorities in charge had been most
civn, and allowed him to go into the trenches and examine
this piece of wall which was being followed. It consisted
largely of hewn stones, evidently not hewn for the place
they occupied, but removed from the ruins or sites of
earlier buildings. Nearly a hundred yards of it had been
exhumed, and Arnold pored over each stone as its covering
of earth was removed. A single stone, therefore, later
than the Periclean age, a single fragment bearing sculpture
or carving subsequent to that date, would prove that this
was not one of the long walls. But at present none bore
mark of a later date, none showed that this structure,
whatever it was (and hourly the identification was
becoming more likely), was later than the age of Pericles.
Walter had walked down there with him again this after-

20

3o6 JUGGERNAUT

noon, but had quickly wearied of the slow process, and
had gone off to pay an overdue call. He was going to
dine at the hotel with Arnold that night.

Arnold went straight back when work stopped at sunset
and found the answer to his telegram waiting for him.

" Pray stop another week," it ran. " Delighted with
your delight, Margery."

Another week — that meant so much to him. In
another week the question of the long walls would be
solved ; in another week the introduction to his book
(and how good it was he could not help knowing) would
be finished. And when Walter came in that evening,
he sprang up radiantly to greet him.

" And it is not my last night after all, my dear Walter,"
he said. " Margery wants me to stop another week,
which I shall do. It seems there is no hurry about my
getting back, and another week here will suit me very
well. Let us come in to dinner."

" And your plans ?" he asked, as they sat down.
" The opposite of yours," said Walter. " I can take
a month's leave now. So I shall go to-morrow, and have
another month in the autumn."

" Probably it will be my berth that you will occupy,"
said Arnold. " The steamer is very full, they told me.
I hope there will be fewer passengers next week."

A certain constraint had fallen on Walter. He could
not picture to himself Arnold's point of view. It seemed
to him utterly inhuman. So, like a wise young man, he
talked of something else.

" I shall go to Ballards," he said, " as my mother is
staying in the country till Easter."

" So pray go and see Margery," said Arnold, wrenching
Walter's thoughts back again.

" Of course I will, loaded with your messages. Load
me now."

JUGGERNAUT 307

Arnold was engaged in the dissection of a red mullet,
and a moment's thought told him what was the Greek
for this excellent fish. Then he answered.

" You need not take my love," he said, " because that
is already there. But tell her about this excavation of
the long walls, how every sign seems to show that the site,
which I long ago conjectured, is the true one."

" Will she understand that ?" asked Walter.

" I think she will — I think I read as far as that with her.
I shall have to add an appendix or rewrite the section.
Anyhow, she knows that this point of topography is a
vital one. The street of tombs, for instance ; it was hardly
likely that they would leave that outside the walls.
But I know, my dear fellow, that this does not particularly
interest you."

" But I want to get the message for Margery right,"
said Walter. " I am sure it interests her."

" I think it does, and when we go upstairs after dinner,
I can show you the point on the map. You will quite
understand it then. My mother is at Elmhurst, too, I
think. I know Margery thought of stopping down there,
and asking her to come. Oh yes, in her last letter
Margery said that she had come. Of course, the position
of the long walls is of tremendous importance. The
character of the Greeks is concerned, as to whether they
left their cemetery outside or inside the lines of fortifica-
tion. There is much to be said on both sides. My dear
Walter, I apologise ; I am talking shop again. Did you
find the Russian Minister in ?"

Walter laughed.

" That is shop of mine," he said. " That won't
do."

Arnold met the young man's eye. It was extremely
friendly and interested.

" Well, then, Margery," he said. " Your first cousin

3o8 JUGGERNAUT

and my wife. Isn't that a topic free from any imputation

of shop ?"

" By all means," said Walter quietly.

Walter had to make his arrangements for going that
night, since his boat left at eleven next morning^ and an
hour later, having had the possibilities of the long walls
explained to him, he was standing on the steps of the hotel
lighting a last cigarette. And then he said two words :

" Good God !" were the two. There was nothing more
from his point of view that could be said.

Meantime at Elmhurst the fortnight of Arnold's absence
had passed very happily for Margery. His letters brim-
ming with content, and sun, and news of successful work
showed her how right she had been to encourage him to
go, and day by day she triumphed over Mrs. Leveson,
who at first had not quite liked his absence. He ought
not to have wished to be away now, and she could not
understand at first how Margery desired that he should
be. But by degrees she saw : it was for the simplest of
all reasons, namely, that she wished it merely because
he did. For her that was amply sufficient, and conse-
quently her mother-in-law had to acquiesce, since there
was no use in arguing against a reason like that. This
morning she had been out when his telegram came, and
had not returned till after Margery had sent her reply.
But before Margery could tell her about it, she saw that
something had happened to trouble her.

Margery was sitting at her table still fingering the pen
with which she had written her answer, when her mother-
in-law returned ; otherwise, a thing rare with her, she was
unoccupied.

" Anything the matter, dear ?" said Mrs. Leveson, as
soon as she saw her.

Margery raised a troubled face.

JUGGERNAUT 309

" Oh, only that I'm making a goose of myself," she
said.

" I am sorry. Let's see if we can't pluck the goose
together. What is it ?"

" Arnold," said Margery, with an effort. " He tele-
graphed to know if there was any reason why he should
not stay another week. So, of course, I told him to stop.
There is no reason why he should not stop another week.
But, oh, I wish he didn't want to."

Mrs. Leveson's views on this subject were perfectly clear.

" I will send another telegram, dear," she said. " You
aren't being a goose. Arnold is being a pig. Well, our
little pig shall come home. I wish you had waited till
I came in. Why didn't you ?"

" Because I thought you might perhaps feel as you do.
He wants to stop, you see. That makes such a very big
piece of me want him to stop too. I had to tell him, and
very cordially, I think, that I was delighted he should.
But sometimes I do so wish there hadn't been any Pericles
at all. I don't wish it really, you know, and I wouldn't
say I did to anybody but you. No, I don't wish it. I
— I don't know what Arnold would do without Pericles."

Margery laughed in a rather uncertain manner.

" Pericles or no Pericles," said Mrs. Leveson, " I shall
telegraph to him on my own account."

" No, you mustn't do that," said Margery. " It would
frighten and unsettle him, and I should have to send
another telegram, and you would send another, and we
should soon be ruined. Besides — oh, can't you under-
stand ? — it isn't only my pride that makes me want him to
do what he likes, but my love. But I'm being a goose."

" I think Arnold is behaving very stupidly and very
selfishly," said his mother. " And, dear, your love should
want to save him from doing that."

" But I can't save him from feeling that," said Margery.

310 JUGGERNAUT

" I could make him come home, but I can't make him
want to."

There was tragic truth in this, and, the words once
spoken, opened the door to others. The little walled-up
crying prisoner in her heart came out.

" I can't imagine him wanting to stop away," she said.
" At least, some part of me can't imagine it, but I dare say
it is a foolish and selfish part. I want him here, and it is
just that which I can't tell him. If he doesn't know it by
himself it is no use my saying it, for it's only the things
one feels that one can understand. One can never be
taught anything that one does not know. Birds — I
remember watching them last summer — can teach their
young to fly, because the young ones know really. But
you couldn't teach me to fly by putting me on a high
branch and saying, ' Now fly.' And I can't teach
Arnold that I want him ; I could tell him, but that isn't
teaching him. He has to know it of himself."

Mrs. Leveson had sat down, and listened to this in
silence.

" Am I a little beast for talking like this ?" asked
Margery. " I can't help it if I am. I'm going to be a
little beast just for once. It hurt me when I read that
telegram — oh, it hurt. It wasn't a new pain, either.
I had had it before. I had it when I told him that I
knew I was going to have a baby. I have never men-
tioned this to a single soul yet. If Arnold hurt me on
purpose I don't think I should mind ; I should know he
felt cross or angry, felt something that wasn't him.
But when he hurts me unintentionally — it hurts because
it is he. Is that all nonsense ? I hope so — I expect so.
Oh dear, I wish I was more sensible. I wish I was more
like Aunt Aggie. She would never have let Arnold go
to Athens at all, and she thought that because I did we
had quarrelled. That was so funny that I had to laugh.

JUGGERNAUT 311

Fancy Arnold and me quarrelling. I couldn't quarrel
with him. It is a silly word to use."

Margery was getting a little excited, and Mrs. Leveson
did not quite like it. And, since the best way of calming
excited people is not to tell them to be calm, but to be
calm oneself, she answered quietly.

" Quite a silly word, dear," she said, " but, you see,
sometimes Mrs. Morrison is silly. I will not telegraph
to Arnold since you do not wish it, and, indeed, there is
no reason to."

Margery looked up quickly, smiling.

" Then I am right ?" she said. " I am being a goose.
But I won't be."

She got up and came across to the elder woman, her
serenity restored again.

" Oh, Arnold's mother," she said, " I do love you and
your son. And wUl you forgive all the stupid and silly
things I have said ? But I think I was right to say them.
I had bottled them up inside me, and they were — well,
they were going a little bad. Will you please forget about
them ? I shall do the same now I have opened them out.
And, indeed, I can't think of anything for long together
except the one great thing. And when I think of that,
do you know, I feel Arnold's dear head between my
hands, and I bless him, I love him."

Mrs. Leveson got up.

" Ah, my dear," she said, " I thank God every day for
giving you to him. You are much too good for him, but
I don't mind that."

Walter announced from Paris his immediate arrival,
and appeared the morning after his telegram had been
received. It was the warmest of welcomes that he got
from Margery, but it required not much of an eye to see
that her pleasure at having him back was in large degree

312 JUGGERNAUT

the prospective pleasure of hearing the latest and the
fullest news about her husband. But it was clear also
that she was very glad to see him for his own sake, and
in his quiet, humble way he was tremendously grateful
for that. To him not a hint of the vaguest and most
distant kind did she give about that on which she had
spoken to Mrs. Leveson, and he half absolved Arnold for
his inhuman lust after long walls insteads of coming home
when he saw how unfeigned a pleasure Margery took in
them.

" Isn't it just the luckiest thing in the world," she said,
" that Arnold should happen to be at Athens when this
is going on ? I should have scolded him if he had come
home. He knew that, I expect. Oh, Walter, it's lovely
to see you. But tell me about Arnold first. Is the dear
man frightfully happy ? And did you rout him out from
his work and not allow him to sit over it all day ?"

"Well, I didn't want to bother him," said Walter,
" and I only told him that I was always ready to go out
if he wanted. Don't you bother about him, either. He
is far too well and interested to be interesting. There
was a long message for you about the walls, and whether
they left the cemetery outside them. I rather think they
didn't. He said you would understand."

" Oh, it's thrilling," said Margery rather evasively.
" I quite see. At least, I'm sure Arnold is right about it."

" He rather thought so," said Walter.

Margery laughed.

" I don't believe you see what his work is to him," she
said, " and it's a blessing I do. I like people to have
minds, you know. I haven't got one myself, and it's a
defect, Walter. Some day I must come out with him
and see you there. You are looking so brown and well,
dear. And it was nice of you to come over your very
first morning. Shall we go out a bit ? It is sunny to-day.

JUGGERNAUT 313

And he will arrive just about a week after you. Yester-
day week, that is."

Walter's impatience of him bubbled up for a moment.

" Unless he settles to stay on again," he remarked.

Margery looked at him sideways as she took his arm.

" Oh, but he won't," she said, " and I think you said
that rather crossly, as if you thought he ought to have
come back this week. There is spring in the air to-day,
is there not ? Look at the snowdrops, dear weak little
darlings, and so zealous to give us the first news of spring.
The birds know about it too. There was a blackbird
telling about it this morning on the lawn. Such notes
— flutes, just flutes. There are aconites too, and the
crocuses will come soon — tender, damp, folded sheaths
with hearts of gold."

" You always loved the spring, I remember," he said
quietly.

" Yes ; do you remember, too, how we used to make
a spring-running like the dear beasts in the ' Jungle
Book ' ? It always ended in my tearing my frock."

" They were good days," said he.

" I know. It was you who made them good. And
I don't believe I ever thanked you for it."

" I don't think you ever did," said he. " Thank me
now at once, please."

She laughed softly and pressed his arm.

" Thank you, dear Walter," she said. " Thank you
for being my best friend always."

That was reward enough. He kept those words in his
heart.

The rest of the week passed quietly enough, and
Arnold had already left Athens, telegraphing from Patras
that he was on his way home. But soon after that news
had been received, the serenity and happiness which had

314 JUGGERNAUT

been Margery's all those days suddenly left her. She
became terribly agitated and nervous, full of unreasonable
fears — fears for his safety crossing the Adriatic, fears for
accidents to the train that was bringing him momentarily
nearer. There had been an accident to the Brindisi
express only a few days ago, and though no one was hurt,
the train had been delayed six hours. The thought of
having to wait for an hour even after the time when he
ought to arrive seemed to her intolerable. She kept
asking Mrs. Leveson if she thought he would telegraph
from Paris, to say he was safe so far ? Would he tele-
graph again from Calais ? Then came other fears, equally
unreasonable. Walter's horse had shied as he started
to ride home. She wished he would not ride such horses.
This one, as he had said, did not hanker after motor-cars,
and the roads were full of them. But Aunt Aggie never
thought about anybody but Pug.

Mrs. Leveson tried to soothe her.

" Margery dear," she said, " you are talking ridicu-
lously. How many times has Walter ridden that horse
in perfect safety ? And how many times does the Brindisi
train have an accident ? I dare say Arnold will not have
time to telegraph from Paris. You must not fret if he
does not."

" And there was a gale in the Channel yesterday,"
said Margery, with wild, frightened eyes. " Cannot we
telegraph to Calais and tell him to stop there until it has
gone down. Look at the trees, how they bend and crack !"

This sudden agitation was quite unexpected ; no one
could have foreseen it, but Mrs. Leveson at the moment
would willingly have thrown all that exquisite intro-
duction to the " Age of Pericles " into the fire if by that
burnt offering she could have brought Arnold here.

" My dear, he will not cross till to-morrow morning,'
she said.

JUGGERNAUT 315

" Then we can catch him at Calais. Let us telegraph.
And we can telegraph to Ballards at the same time to
know if Walter is safe."

Mrs. Leveson came and sat by Margery on the sofa.

" My darling, you are making a goose of yourself," she
said firmly. " Now be quite quiet. I am going to ring
for the nurse, and then you shall go upstairs. You are
excited, and not like yourself. There is no reason for
fear of any sort. But you must be quiet, you must be
wise, and do as you are told."

Trouble and fear still lingered in Margery's face.

" I will try," she said. " But Arnold ought to be here.
No, I don't mean that. He didn't know ; I didn't
know. What shall I do ?"

Mrs. Leveson rang the bell and then came back to her.

" Think of your child," she said.

Margery's baby was born early next morning. It lived
— it just lived. And it went back into the dark, quiet
gulf out of which all life comes, into which all life goes.
Margery knew what had happened. She was conscious
again, and asked for her child. Thereafter, in intervals
of stupor and unconsciousness, she asked if Arnold had
come. She asked if the gale had subsided. She asked
whether anything had been heard from him. But nothing
had been heard, and she could only be told that he was
coming, that he would arrive that night. The gale had
gone down, and all day the sunshine of February
shone whitely, and the clashing of the branches of trees
was still .

All that day Mrs. Leveson sat in a corner of the big
bedroom, ready to come if Margery wanted her, ready to
wait in case of her doing so. The anxiety about Arnold had
again taken possession of Margery's mind, and, drowsy
from drugs, she awoke only to the consciousness of that.

3i6 JUGGERNAUT

" He is really coming ?" she asked once. " You have
had no news that — something else has happened ?"

" No, my dear," said Mrs. Leveson, " he will be here
this evening. I promise you he will."

Margery lay quiet a little. Then she spoke again.

" I was good, wasn't I ?" she asked.

" Yes, dear, very good."

" Will you tell him that ? Will you also tell him that
— that he has no son ? I should like him to know that
before he sees me. Oh, poor Arnold ; he will be so dis-
appointed."

Then her voice grew drowsier.

" I am so tired," she said. " Please wake me when
he comes."

Her eyelids fluttered and fell. Earlier in the day she
had wished the blind to be up so that she could see out
into the sunshine. Now, very gently the nurse drew
it down.

" I think she will sleep," she said to Mrs. Leveson as
she passed the corner where she sat.

Long after Margery was asleep she sat there, trying
to assimilate the tragedy, trying not to feel bitter about
it. It was not Arnold's fault, yet if only he had been
here, Margery would not have had those hours of com-
plicated anxiety. When it was most important that she
should be at ease she had agonised over Arnold's absence.
But it was of no use to think of what might have been.
In a few hours he would arrive, cheerful, with excellent
news of the book, with inquiries for Margery. But she
was sleeping, at last she was able to sleep. That mattered
so much more than anything else.

She was sleeping still, when, after dark had fallen, Mrs.
Leveson heard the wheels of Arnold's arrival, and she
went softly downstairs to meet him and break the news
to him. And when she saw his face, for the moment she

JUGGERNAUT 317

thought that the news must have already been told him,
for it was a tragic mask — white, tired, and grief-stricken,
that he turned to her.

" Dear mother," he said, and she could see that he
could scarcely frame the words. " I don't know how to
tell you. The most dreadful thing has happened. The
little bag which contained my manuscript — stolen. I
put it into my carriage myself at Dover, and left the train
to get a cup of tea. I came back and it was gone !
Gone ! I can scarcely believe it yet myself."

He sat down in a chair in the hall — a bent, stricken
figure, with trembling of his raised hands.

" It will kill me," he cried. " I don't feel as if I can
face it. That book was my life, and it was so nearly
finished. Of course, they will offer all sorts of rewards.
I said I would cheerfully give one thousand pounds to get
it back, and would not prosecute the thief, but they told
me the chances of getting it back are not great. Prosecute !
I would shake hands with and thank the thief who took
it, provided only he would let me have it back. As for
one thousand pounds, I would give ten thousand — there
is nothing I would not give. But they tell me the chances
are that the thief, finding nothing of value — nothing of
value ; my God, the irony of that ! — in the bag, will sell
it for a shilling or two and light the fire with my manu-
script. He will light the fire then with my brains, with
myself. I shall be burning in that garret. Or perhaps
he will just throw it away — the dustman will find it on
some rubbish heap with orange peel and broken bottles.
What am I to do ? What shall I do to-morrow morning ?
Or on any morning ? I don't — I can't see what is to
happen to me."

He passed his hand over his eyes in a dazed, blind
manner.

" How is Margery ?" he asked.

3i8 JUGGERNAUT

That bitterness against him which his mother could not
help feeling during the long hazardous hours while she sat
with Margery was gone. She knew what this loss was to
him ; from living with him so long she could appreciate
the utter blankness which the future must just now
present to him. Indeed, it was no wonder that he spoke
of it first, that not until he had done that did he ask after
Margery. He had come home without any thought of it
being possible that he was not in time, without any idea
that either birth or death could have yet taken place.

The servants had gone upstairs with his luggage, and
mother and son were alone. She sat down on the bench
beside him.

" Oh, my son," she said, " there is more yet for you to
bear."

For one half second he forgot about his book ; his loss
at any rate ceased to occupy him entirely.

" Not Margery " he said.

" Ah, no, thank God," said she. " But, Arnold, her
child was born this morning. But it scarcely lived. It
passed from us almost as soon as it came. It was God's
will, my darling, that it should be so."

"And she?" he asked.

" Of course, the next day or two will be very anxious,
but she has been sleeping this afternoon, and was asleep
when I came down. She wanted to be awakened when
you came, but, of course, we mustn't do that. You will
see her as soon as she wakes. She is being so good and
so brave, but, as we both know, Margery would be sure
to be that. I don't think she has given a single thought
to herself, or her own bitter, bitter disappointment. All
her sorrow is for you. That is very wonderful, as it is
she who has borne it all. . . . But then Margery is very
wonderful. She asked me to tell you, so that you should
know before you see her."

JUGGERNAUT 319

Arnold sat in silence, with head down-bent.

" What is it all about ?" he said at length. " What is
the point of it ? Poor, dear Margery ! And she doesn't
know about the loss of my book yet. She will feel it
frightfully. We shall have no more readings together.
Am I to tell her?"

With all her sympathy for him, with all her apprecia-
tion of what the loss of his book meant, Mrs. Leveson
found it hard to follow him here. It was next to incon-
ceivable that he should, just now, think of Margery's
grief over this literary loss. It was egoism in excelsis that
made him feel for Margery in this second blow that was
coming upon her. That she would be profoundly grieved
there was no doubt at all, but that, at this moment,
Arnold should think how grieved she would be was a
portentous thing. He could put the sense of his own
loss into Margery's mind, and there weigh it against the
loss that had come upon the mother. But his question
must be answered, and answered patiently.

" No, dear, I think I should try to keep it from her,"
she said, " just for the present. Of course, she will be
terribly grieved for you, but until its possible recovery
has become hopeless there is no need to let her know.
Ah, here is the nurse. I expect that means that Margery
is awake."

The nurse had come down to say that this was so.
Margery had asked if her husband had come, and he went
upstairs.

She was lying on her side, facing the door by which he
entered, and she smiled at him, holding out her hand.
There was no effort in her smile ; it simply welcomed him
home, and she was — even now — overjoyed to see him.
All day she had borne her loss alone, for no amount of
sympathy from any but him could reach her. The loss
was theirs, and now that he knew, he would be bearing

320 JUGGERNAUT

the burden of it with her. Yet, had it been possible, she
would have taken it all on herself.

He sat down by the side of her bed, while she still held
his hand in hers, and spoke softly, pausing often.

" My darhng, so you have come !" she said ; " and
mother will have told you about it. I have longed for
you so, and I could not help worrying about your safety.
Arnold dear, don't grieve too much. Please God, we
shall have other children !"

He took her hand to his lips and kissed it, and the weak
fluttering pressure of her fingers returned the caress.

" Yes, dearest," he said, " we must look forward,
mustn't we ? There is no loss that is irreparable."

And then, even while he sat with her hand in his, his
mind went back to that which he told himself was an
irreparable loss. He could not begin again : the very
thought of putting ' (i) ' on the top right-hand corner of
the first page was unthinkable.

" And you have had a good journey ?" she asked.
" There was such a gale here two days ago. But you
don't mind the sea, do you ?"

" No ; quite a good journey," he said, thinking of
Dover.

Margery was silent again, her soul finding peace in his
presence, reaching out after him, longing to heal and
minister to his wound.

" Mother has been such a dear," she said ; " but I
wanted you — you ! And now you have come, I shall get
well so quickly. And, Arnold dear, we must look at it
like this. God has taken the baby from us, but . . ."

Margery paused again, thinking out her thought.

" God has taken it," she said, " but though He has
taken, we can still give. We can be more than resigned ;

JUGGERNAUT 321

we must be more than that. We must offer baby to Him,
hold it out to Him. That's what was worrying me so
this morning, how to get that right. But I am sure that
is it. And somehow, even in the middle of it, it makes
me so tremendously happy to give."

The nurse had ordained that this interview was to last
five minutes only, and she looked in again, to indicate the
close of it. Arnold got up and kissed Margery on the
forehead.

" That is my dismissal," he said. " Sleep well, Margery
dear. Get well. You are all I have got left,"

Margery smiled.

" I don't flatter myself quite to that extent," she said.
" How is the book ? Walter told me it was going
splendidly, that you were really pleased with it, and that
means a great deal. Isn't it nearly finished ?"

" So nearly, so nearly," said he, commanding his voice
with difficulty. " It has got on famously. Good-night,
my darling !"

And he hurried from the room, fearing he might betray
the terrible secret.

az

CHAPTER XV

From day to day Margery steadily regained her strength,
but the main cause that produced this physical recupera-
tion was mental. She had her place to fill ; it was her
business to help and comfort Arnold, and she must waste
as little time as possible in being ill. Even at that first
interview he had given her the impression of having
received some stunning, unmanning blow, and her
observation of him during the days that immediately
followed confirmed that. It was clear that when he was
with her he made great efforts both to bear up himself
and to help her, but his face bore the look of a man who
was suffering internally and intensely. Sometimes even
while he talked to her he would break off short in the
middle of a sentence, as if some summons had come to his
mind which tore it away from what he was saying. This
would happen even when she was asking him about his
book, and though she often questioned him about it,
inquiring into its progress, she could get very little from
him. Then one morning, some three days after he had
come home, she, eagerly on the lookout for anything
that could reach him, or make the desolation of his grief
the less, suddenly thought, with a pang of self-reproach
at not having done so before, of something he might be
brooding over without wanting to speak to her about it.

" Arnold dear," she said, " I feel sure there is some-
thing on your mind, which you won't speak to me about,
and I feel almost sure that I have guessed what it is.

322

JUGGERNAUT 323

You mustn't think of it any more. It is passed to begin
with, and besides, it was in no way your fault."

It was impossible that she should know ; nobody could
have told her of his loss.

" Tell me, then," he said.

" You are reproaching yourself, dear, I think," she said,
" for not having been with me when it all happened. You
mustn't do that. I am afraid that at first I reproached
you, too, but that was wrong of me. To begin with, I
had encouraged you to stay at Athens "

" Ah, if I had never gone to Athens !" he exclaimed.

" No ; don't say or think that. It was quite right for
you to go, and, after all, it is a little consolation, isn't it,
to know that you did the best work perhaps of your life
there ? I should think of that so much if I were you.
People are so absurd sometimes ; they think because they
are in great grief that it is heartless to take pleasure in
other things. Why, it is just the presence of other things
that makes one pull through. If it wasn't for you and
mother and your book, I shouldn't care to live. But not
only do I care to, but I want to very, very much. Life
will be lovely again. So if that is it, dear, promise me
you will not reproach yourself any more. We couldn't
have told. You were quite right to stop."

Margery leaned towards him in bed, her soul shining in
her eyes.

" And I wish you would set to work again, dear," she
said. " Mother told me you hadn't touched a book since
you came back. I know it won't be easy for you, but do,
to please me, if for no other reason, sit down for a couple
of hours every morning and try. I hate to think of you
doing nothing, nursing your grief. Your work is there,
whatever has happened. Just as good as ever."

She paused a moment.

" And I want to confess," she said. " Before now, I

324 JUGGERNAUT

have been jealous of your work now and then, though I
have always been so proud of it. I used to think some-
times that you put it first; wicked little beast that I was,
that you really cared more for it than anything. Do you
forgive me ?"

" Oh, my dear !" he said, " as if there was anything to
forgive."

" Then to show me how wrong I was, do try to take it
up again. Ishan't be jealous of it now. Won't you try ?"

Arnold got up ; it was hard to face the candour and
love of Margery's eyes. Soon she would have to be told,
but not just yet. He went across to the window, feeling
himself planted, without any fault of his, in a hypocrite's
place. It was not, as he well knew, only the baby's death
that had thus utterly knocked the bottom out of his life,
though he was bitterly disappointed about that ; he knew
also that if that had been all, he would not have wasted a
day, but with excellent common sense have taken his mind
off this irreparable business by some hard work. It would
have been foolish to have done otherwise, but now that
great anodyne for pain was taken from him.

" Won't you try ?" she asked again.

" I can't ! I simply can't !" said he.

Then came a gentle knock at the door, and Mrs. Leveson
entered.

" A telegram for you, dear," she said to Arnold.

He opened it, gave but one glance at the two words it
contained, and then gave a great sigh.

" Thank God ! thank God !" he said. " Margery, my
darling, such news ! Yes, mother, it has been found."

The change in him was instantaneous, complete. The
listless, tragic face was irradiated ; his eyes sparkled, his
mouth wreathed itself in happy curves.

" We must tell Margery now !" he said, and his selfish-
ness was not the less sublime because he thought he was

JUGGERNAUT 335

thinking about her. " The most dreadful thing, my
dearest, happened on my way home, and since we knew
how miserable it would make you, I determined not to
tell you until I had absolutely given up hope, though I
longed for your sympathy. My bag was stolen at Dover
while I had a cup of tea on the platform. It contained
the whole of my manuscript, the only copy. And it has
been recovered ! What readings we shall have, dear !
I have been so dreading that you would ask me to read
to you, as I did in those delicious days in the autumn,
and I should have to rack my brains for excuses. Of
course, they will send it on at once. It might even be
here this evening. How one longs to know all the details
of its recovery ! I shall telegraph back at once, saying I
am sending the reward I promised."

He looked at Margery, and in his own intense relief saw
nothing of the change that had come over her face. Nor
did he notice the change in her voice, though from it all
the eager, tender yearning to comfort him had passed
away. There was no need to comfort him any more.
The telegram had done that better than she could.

But though that was gone, there was intense cordiality
in her tone.

" Oh, Arnold, how dreadful it must have been for you !"
she said. " I am glad. I am glad it has been found."

" Thank you, my dearest. And were we not right to
keep it from you ? It would have worried you, and, as it
now turns out, it would have worried you unnecessarily.
I will just go and send my telegram, and then come
back."

Mrs. Leveson remained with Margery, whom she had not
yet seen that morning.

" You look ever so much better, dear," she said ; " and
the nurse tells me you slept well."

326 JUGGERNAUT

" Yes, I slept beautifully," said Margery, not smiling.
And then quite suddenly she began to cry.

" My dear, what is it ?" asked Mrs. Leveson.

" N— nothing. It's me. It's— it's this beastly little
me. I am glad, though, that it has been found. I stick
to that "

Margery made a tremendous effort with herself and
checked her sobs.

" I deserve to be whipped," she said. " And I should
equally deserve it if I said a single word more about why I
began to cry, even to you. And you mustn't try to guess.
I should be so ashamed if you guessed. I feel ever so
much better this morning, and Arnold's book is found.
Hurrah ! hurrah !"

There was no need for Mrs. Leveson to guess ; she
already knew, and before Arnold left the room she could
cheerfull}^ have boxed his ears for the thoughtlessness of
his intense relief at the finding of his book. She divined
unerringly exactly how Margery felt, knew, too, how
inevitable it was that she should feel like this, and that
she should blame herself for so feeling. Margery had so
longed to comfort Arnold, to find her own comfort
therein, to find, too, in their mingled tears the healing
of bitterness, but, rejoicing as she did that he was already
so much comforted (though not by her), she could not
but . . . but resent the nature of his comforter. All these
past days she had felt so close to him, so at one with him,
in their grief ; it even was assuaged because he cared so,
because they were together in it. And now, from the
change that had so instantly come over him, it was inevit-
able that she should know how great a part of his listless
depression, his apathy, his grief, came not from that at all,
but from the loss of his manuscript. No wonder he could
not work ; she knew why now. It was not that his work
had lost its savour, for already he promised her readings,

JUGGERNAUT 327

since it was found again. But though of all this complica-
tion of feelings it was hard to say what was uppermost in
her mind, her intention was clear enough. " Hurrah !"
expressed exactly what she chose to feel, what her will felt.

Her convalescence progressed rapidly. Rapidly, also,
progressed Arnold's book, which, registered and insured,
and made as safe as postal regulations could manage,
arrived next morning with an account of its adventures.

" A romance — I declare it's a romance," said the con-
soled author. " Think, mother ; it was picked up from
under the bed of a lodging-house by a servant who was
cleaning the room. It must have been touch-and-go
whether she put it on the fire. But she kept it, as it seemed
neatly written, and might prove to be of value, and only
next day she read in the Courier my advertisement and
reward. It is clear that she was not the thief, as Tuesday
was not her afternoon out, whatever that is. They ask
if I wish search to be made for him, and if I will prosecute.
Good gracious, no ! He may go in peace as far as he
concerns me. Think of him, too, if he sees my advertise-
ment ! How he will gnash his teeth at the thought of
what he has missed. I have a good mind to dedicate the
book to him : ' To the unknown thief — ayvcoTM KkeTrrrj.' "
How excited Margery will be when I tell her of it ! Would
it be better not to tell her its adventures just yet ?
Would the excitement be bad for her, do you think ?"

" I feel sure it would not," observed his mother.

They were at breakfast together. Arnold dissected a
poached egg, so that the yolk fell on the toast below it
instead of being spilled on the plate. The performance
was academically perfect. Academically perfect also was
his speech. It was exactly for that reason that his
mother found it so profoundly unsatisfactory.

" I don't think you do Margery justice," he said.

328 JUGGERNAUT

" She has another excellent night, by the way. I asked
before I came down. But you don't do her justice, dear
mother. She is more intelhgent — that is the wrong word
— more intellectually disposed than you could possibly
guess. She doesn't put that side of her forward ; she is
hardly conscious of it herself. But it is there ; she doesn't
know how much stimulus she has given me, all so quietly.
But I know about that better than you, and I think the
account of the finding of my manuscript might excite
her unduly. Of course, one cannot be certain. And there
is the other side to it. A little excitement might do her
good. Perhaps she wants a little rousing. She was so
right, dear girl, in wanting me to take up my work again
at once, without knowing how tragic a reason lay at the
bottom of my idleness. And I want her to divert her
mind from this dreadful misfortune which has befallen
us both, even as she wanted me to. So perhaps you are
right. I will read Margery the history of the book's
adventures after breakfast, and you may be sure I shall be
on the lookout for any signs that show it is too exciting
for her. Or shall I let the nurse read it first, and take
her opinion on the matter ?"

Arnold had finished his poached egg, and was cutting
himself a liberal helping of ham from the sideboard, so
that he did not hear his mother say, more to herself than
him, " My poor Arnold!" In truth, at the moment he
seemed to her to be bankrupt of soul. All his thoughts of
Margery sprang from the root-idea of how immensely
interested she must be in him. Was she fit for the excite-
ment that the account of the recovery of the book would
certainly cause her ? Indeed, it was a tragic poverty.
And the worst feature about it was that it was wholly un-
conscious ; there was nothing within him of nobler and
richer nature which told him of his beggary. He went on
with sublime infatuation.

JUGGERNAUT 329

" And afterwards I shall do as dear Margery wished
me," he said, " and have a good morning's work, and
settle down into the old ways again. And after tea I
shall find out whether she would like to be read to. The
introduction is quite finished, and, without conceit, I
think she will share my belief that it is not badly done.
How wise and thoughtful she was, wanting me to take
to work again ! After all, that is the great panacea, is
it not ?"

These excellent resolutions were duly put into practice,
and for the next few weeks Arnold was a model of in-
dustry, while every day after tea he more than cheerfully
gave up to Margery as much time as he was allowed to
spend with her. He saw her also every morning before
he came down, but the after-breakfast visits were aban-
doned, since, with the evening hours cut off, he could not
well make inroads into the morning also. He told himself,
even as he told her, that it was an effort very often to
concentrate himself on the age of Pericles, since his
mind called him back again and again to the dreadful
loss they had suffered, but he made these efforts willingly,
and, it must be confessed, with considerable success. It
would not do to relax them ; it was cowardly to sit down
and brood over the inevitable past. One had to make
the best of what lay before one. And he quoted Words-
worth with great appropriateness :

" Let us grieve not, only find
Strength in what remains behind."

" Isn't it so, m}^ darling ?" he would say, as he took the
elastic band off the chapter he had brought up to read to
her." And now shall I read to you ?"

" Yes, please, Arnold," said Margery. And she would
look at him gravely with eyes that were beginning to see
him and to understand him.

330 JUGGERNAUT

But her bodily health mended very rapidly, and Walter's
month of leave was not yet over before she could be
carried downstairs and wheeled out into the garden.
There the terrace walk facing due south was sheltered
from such chill as might be in the wind, and the last
week of February saw her spending many warm morning
hours in the pale spring sunshine. Mrs. Leveson was often
with her, and every morning after she could come down
Walter rode over from Ballards ; then, too, punctually
at the striking of one o'clock Arnold came out from his
study, and supplemented the quiet exercise of his stroll
by wheeling her up and down, giving her the report of his
morning's work, or talking over with her and Walter the
plan that was shaping itself for spending the month of
April at Athens.

" We might even start a little before that, my dear," he
would say. " I would willingly arrange to do that, and
leave the last two chapters to be written there. You need
a change, and the sooner you take it the better. I shall
give myself a week's holiday when we arrive, and take
you every day to see some new thing, quite in the Athenian
mode. And I think Walter must arrange an expedition to
Nauplia, to see Tiryus and Myceuse. I wonder if you will
be up to that, Margery. You must not over-fatigue your-
self."

" I should like to start this minute," she said.

Arnold laughed.

" And I, too. Shall I get a wheelbarrow and put all
my books and papers in it, and I will wheel that, and
Walter will wheel you, and we will go straight to the
station ? Ah, there is the luncheon bell ! Please begin
without me. I omitted to put my papers straight before
I came out. It looked so lovely this morning, and my
head was so full of our April plans."

At other times Margery would have established herself

JUGGERNAUT 331

out here in some windless nook, and be left alone with a
book or with letters to write. But she read little and
wrote little ; her mind was busy over things that mattered
much more.

The last few weeks, dating, to be accurate, from the
moment of Arnold's receiving the telegram which said his
manuscript had been recovered, had brought to her a
revelation that must be faced. There was no longer any
doubt about it ; she saw clearly now that of which she had
seen glimpses and fleeting visions all the autumn. She
could no longer blame herself for thinking these things,
or put them down to jealous imaginations of hers ; they
were so. She was not to Arnold what he was to her. She
had to face that, face it till her soul grew accustomed to
it, without bitterness and without blaming him. It was
not his fault, she had but blinded herself with her own love.

There were certain hopes that she must abandon. On
that day when her child was born and died, while she
still waited with what passion and yearning for his return,
she had hugged one of these very close to her. She had
hoped that there would be some element, some balm
more precious than ever Gilead bore, hidden in this grief
of theirs, that it would draw them closer together because
their souls would find each other, as it were, out alone in
the wilderness of pain. For several days she had seen
that hope burn brightly, watching his utter dejection and
apathy. His grief, she thought, kept him away from that
other passion of his, namely, his work ; she and that
flower-bud of life that had never fully opened were, after
all, the things most deeply enshrined in his heart. Then
had come the telegram, and the account of that which he
had kept from her, and instantly, at the very moment,
the brightness of his eye, his intellectual alacrity had come
back to him. What had come between him and his work
was not she, nor the loss of his child, but the loss of his

332 JUGGERNAUT

work. Since then he had preached to her, and himself
most successfully practised the gospel of work. He
would often urge her very tenderly (for she never did
him the injustice of saying that he was not fond of her)
to follow his example, to busy herself with anything, to
take hold of life again. But as yet she could not, for the
reason that she had erroneously assigned to his inability
to do so on the first few days after his return.

Nobody could help her, and she must never, if she could
avoid it, betray that she wanted help. The pain was hers
only, and it was in herself, in her own nature, that she
must find its remedy. It was in her own love for him
that the remedy must lie (hidden as yet though it was
from her), since in love there is healing for everything.

It was not quickly nor by any flash of inspiration that
Margery came to perceive this. Day after day and
through long quiet hours of the night she worked at it,
patiently, unremittingly struggling, refusing to allow
herself to accept any conclusion that did not seem to her
to be without flaw. Often and often she said to herself
that she must try to alter the nature of her love for him,
to salt it with common sense, to tone down the white
shining of it, to make it a more everyday affair, more use-
ful, more usable. But that had to be abandoned ; it was
no true remedy that demanded the marring of th"e best
of her. Often she wondered if she felt the loss of her
child too keenly, if she ought to try to put from her the
yearning of the mother for the little, groping hands, the
warm, soft weight upon her breast. Yet, since she
yearned without bitterness for her loss, how could she
put limits on her longing ? Day by day such possible
remedies occurred to her, but she gently put them aside,
and whether she was alone or whether Walter or Arnold
or her mother-in-law was with her, underneath the surface
of talks and reading, the hidden spring of thought circled

JUGGERNAUT 333

and flowed, feeling its way up out of the darkness into
light.

And during this last week of February she saw another
thing, and wondered at her blindness. She saw that
Walter loved her, that he had loved her all along,
since the April days of their childhood together. And yet
there had been nothing strange in her blindness, for he
had never by word or look or sign betrayed himself. Nor
did he betray himself now ; it was by her own light that
Margery discovered it, by the need of love for which she
craved as a child for food, innocently, instinctively, but
imperatively. He gave her what Arnold never gave her,
though till now she had not fully seen that her husband's
affection for her — genuine and fairly deep as it was —
lacked the royal quality. But knowing now how it lacked
in royalty, she saw how that royalty shone in Walter.
It was not what he did, for he did no more than push her
bath-chair, resigning it to Arnold when he came out on
the stroke of one ; he did no more than read to her, talk
to her of the Athenian plans, the maturing of the spring,
of his ride, his mother, his dogs. But the royal quality was
there in those simple things, and it was part of its royalty
that it walked incognito, clothed itself in the garb of
common folk, or at the most in the garb of a friend. Had
it been in any way untrue, had it fallen by a hair-breadth
short of the highest, it would have made itself known,
would have put on its crown, so to speak, and demanded
recognition.

But apparently it did not desire to be recognised ; it
was more than content to exist, knowing itself. . . .

And then the light shone on Margery. She knew she
need no longer worry herself about what she was to do,
how adjust herself to the place she occupied with regard
to her husband. She had only got to love ; nothing else
was her concern. . . .

CHAPTER XVI

Arnold and Margery — he after two months' absence
only — arrived in Athens in the early days of April, finding
that spring, no pale-eyed Primavera, but the violent,
hot-blooded youth of the South, had preceded them. This
was no tentative guest, uncertain of his welcome, as was
his maiden sister of the North, who is warm with sun on
one day and lashed with hail on the next, who is forward
and shy in turns, and smiles for a moment, but to lose
herself in the tempest of grey weeping. Here her brother
had come, like young Dionysus, conquering, irresistible,
lord of the year. Already, before their arrival, his coming
had been made known by the wide-eyed opening of the
anemone, his harbinger, and to-day, when Walter met
them at the Piraeus (for they had chosen the longer sea
voyage from Marseilles in preference to the faster and
more fatiguing land journey to Brindisi), the corn-fields,
milky-green with the upspringing of the blade, were
starred with the inimitable scarlet of the southern poppy.
Overhead the sky was turquoise, as untarnished as the
sapphire of the sea over which they had come, and where
feathers of cloud flecked it, they were no more than the
lines of dazzling spray which the cutting bows of their
steamer had churned to a momentary whiteness. Past
blue island-sides they had sped, but ever through a
halcyon sea, and as the hours passed and Athens grew
nearer, the excitement that possessed Arnold communi-

334

JUGGERNAUT 335

cated itself also to Margery, so that she almost expected
that here at least would come some supreme solution of
her difficulties, even as there awaited him the end and
accomplishment of his book.

Margery well knew that the answer to all that made her
heart ache had been correctly guessed by her. Somehow,
her own love contained the complete solution, but it did
not follow that because that was indubitably so the appli-
cation of the certain truth became easy. And, indeed,
in the days that followed the application of it became
increasingly difficult. Arnold, back again in the place
that had given him so many hours of his happiest inspira-
tion, found that same inspiration waiting for him again,
and in the knowledge of that forgot all else. Often
before Margery had seen him absorbed by his work, but
never before had she guessed how complete that absorp-
tion could be. He had arranged that they should have
the same sitting-room in the Hotel de la Grande Bretagne
which had been to him so congenial a study, but it re-
quired but the lapse of an hour or two on the first morning
after their arrival to show iMargery that its congeniality
to him was bracketed with his solitude there. Already,
too, the days had been planned ; he would work all the
morning, he would be out with her during the afternoon,
returning in time to have a couple of hours more alone
before dinner. The evening was to be given up to Patience
and conversation. No doubt Walter would often come in
to dine, but it was no part of the plan to dine out, as that
involved possible breaking of the thread of work. Be-
sides— this was an afterthought — they could not dine
out so shortly after their bereavement.

Certain modifications of the settled routine had to be
made. Margery, for instance, at once perceived that
during the sacred hours her presence disturbed him, and
she absented herself after breakfast from their sitting-

336 JUGGERNAUT

room, and similarly after tea. And he did not notice
her absence any more than a man notices the absence of a
fly that has been worrying him when he wants to doze.
She was only noticeable when she was there. Again, the
rule about not dining out was capable of readjustment
when the head of the British School of Archaeology de-
sired their presence. Arnold explained his acceptance of
the invitation to her, though he did not urge her to go
herself.

" Dr. Sadler, I am told, is going to be there," he said ;
" and above all things I want to hear his conclusions
about the position of the long walls, the excavation of
which was going on when I was here last. I have formed
my own opinion, but I should be vastly more comfortable
if I found he agreed with me. After all, the dinner will
be more of the nature of an arch^ological conference
than of a festive occasion. I think I should be sorry,
my darling, to miss it. But I would not have you go if
you do not feel inclined. I dare say Walter would dine
with you quietly."

Margery agreed to this : agreed with the whole-hearted
willingness of love, that wanted him to do what he liked,
without even tacit argument. Indeed, the only argument
that she could have raised was on the score of his incon-
sistency with himself : the forms of mourning meant very
little to her. Her genuineness felt that there was no
such thing as conventionality in these matters. She
would have dined out any and every night if Arnold had
liked.

But her serenity, in spite of all this, but deepened daily,
so also did her happiness. That very simple discovery
that it was not necessary to do anything except merely
to love was (though, as has been said, the application of
it was often difficult) a panacea that could not fail. She
might fail, and often did, in its apphcation, but there was

JUGGERNAUT 337

no doubt about the genuineness of the recipe. There was
no other recipe for anything.

It was, then, in the growing fulness of this knowledge
that she sat one morning alone on the steps of the Pro-
pylcea, the white marble gates to the Acropolis. Walter
had driven up with her, and had sat with her and strolled
with her a little, but then he had to get back to the
Legation to attend to his duties. He had found her
waiting for him outside the hotel when he called, for
Arnold had already started his morning's work.

" I love to see anybody as happy as Arnold," she said as
she stepped into the little jingling pair-horsed victoria.
" Happy as the day is long is no expression for him. He
is as happy as life is long, or, anyhow, as his book is

long "

" Getting on all right ?" asked Walter.
" Ah, dear Walter, you don't care about it," she said.
" If you knew how I cared ! It is such a big piece of his
happiness. But what comes next ? Won't he feel rather
lonely when it is finished ? Or will he feel so tremendously
happy because it is done ? Wouldn't it be nice to be able
to create something like that ? I can't envy Arnold, but
I think I envy everybody else who creates. It's — it's
like making a star. You can see it shine every evening."
" Not strictly astronomical," remarked he.
" No ; it's a superior sort of star. I wish I could help
it to shine."

Walter looked rather absently at the columns of the
temple of Zeus Olympics, which they were passing.

" You want to help everybody to shine, don't you ?" he
asked.

" Yes, I think I do. It's natural, isn't it ? If one
can't be silver oneself, the next best thing is to be plate-
powder."

338 JUGGERNAUT

Walter stretched out his long legs. A large foot had
to be put outside the limits of the victoria. There was a
good deal of unspoken instinct in the movement. It was
as if he freed himself from the cramps that bound Arnold.
" You are the best plate-powder," he observed.
" Arnold has never done so well before. He says his
Egyptian book wasn't a patch on this. And he says that
you are tremendously connected with this."

" I'm not," said she quickly, without consideration.
Then she considered.

" But how dear of him to say it," she added, " and to
think it. But he's quite wrong all the same."

They had arrived at the end of their drive by this time,
and on foot mounted the steps of the Propylaea. Above,
a few hawks circled high and wide across the blue, and
somewhere on the rocks of the Acropolis a raven croaked.
And; for the moment, these sounds of sentient life ap-
pealed more to Margery than the austere loveliness of
columns and architrave. The latter were beautiful, but
they were dead, of stone, and though instinct with history
and romance, they were too imperishable, too monu-
mental. She yearned for and loved the frailty and
transience of living things, to which was given so few
years of sunshine and rain, of day and night, before they
were received back into the silence out of which they
came. All things combined at that moment to make
human and living things dearer to her than any theory
or reconstructed history, even though her husband was
its architect. The sun was warm overhead, the poppies
blazed in cracks and crevices of the rocks, spring stirred
in her bones. She was young, and her friend who never
failed her walked by her side, closer to her heart for that
moment than Arnold's book.

And then, by an effort of loyalty which had become
habitual to her, she readjusted herself.

JUGGERNAUT 339

" I am expecting to hear every day that the book is
finished," she said. " I guess that Arnold is nearer to
the end than he has told me. I fancy he means to make
a tremendous surprise of it."

" I'm afraid the surprise won't be so tremendous," he
observed, " if you have already guessed it."

" But he won't know that I have guessed," said she.
" I shall make it appear tremendous."

" And that will do as well ?" asked he.

" Certainly. My pleasure in its completion will be
no less, and he will not guess that I am not surprised.
And then I expect we shall go on that expedition to
Nauplia. You will come with us, won't you ?"

" If I am asked," said he.

" Oh, you will be asked. Arnold Hkes to have you
with us."

" Not sufficient," said he.

Margery laughed.

" And I won't go unless you come," she said.

" That's better. I shall come."

Presently he had to return to the Legation, and, left
alone, Margery again tried to let the spring sunshine,
the wheeling of the hawks, the bloom of the scarlet
poppies, and all the promise of summer sink into her.
But it was hard, in spite of the nearness of the completion
of the book, to realise the promise of summer, to feel
warm with it. The hope that through last autumn and
winter had lifted up her heart had vanished ; her child
was dead, and neither in its birth nor in its death had it
brought her husband any closer to herself. . . . Perhaps
when his book was finished he would become humanised
again, even as he had been during the first six months
of their marriage. Or would he set to work again at
once ? That was quite possible : he had often blamed

340 JUGGERNAUT

himself when his work had not been going well for having
" wasted " so much time a year ago. Wasted ! The
word had dropped like lead into Margery's soul. Had
she " wasted " those months too, the months that made
her feel that all the rest of her life before had been waste ?
Was it waste of time to spend the hours in loving ? She
wished he had not spoken of those months as wasted.

She had moved up from the Propylaea steps, and
crossed the rock to where stood the great temple of
Athene, and strolled up and down the southern side of it,
between the long white marble steps and the edge of the
Acropolis rock, which looked sheerly down on the theatre
of Dionysus below. In front of her lay the green Attic
plain, and beyond the plain the faint blue of the sea.
To the left rose the purple slopes of Hymettus, to the
right the hills of the Peloponnese made a thin violet
band between the blue of sea and sky. Everything
seemed bursting with spring and life and beauty, every-
thing teemed with wonder and surprise, and yet to her
this morning it all seemed remote and meaningless. If
it was waste of time to love and be loved, what was there
in the world worth doing ? Or was Arnold right ? Had
we all been given our youth and vigour, and hunger and
thirst of soul, in order to feed them with knowledge ?

The thought came and stood by her, insistently close,
demanding an answer. And she could only give it the
answer which her heart told her. Everything else was
waste of time unless it was embroidered on to the fabric
of love. Nothing but that concerned her, so long as love
lay at the base of all she did. But her surrender must be
unreserved ; otherwise nothing profited her, not speaking
with the tongues of men and angels, not giving her body
to be burned, not letting it be crushed beneath the ad-
vancing wheels. . . .

JUGGERNAUT 34i

She heard a step behind her which she felt instanta-
neously must be Arnold's. Yet that was impossible,
since she had left him only on hour ago, settled down to
the employment of the sacred hours till lunch-time. Then,
turning, she saw it was he.

" You, dear ?" she said. " What has happened ?"

He sat down on the stone step beside her.

" Oh, nothing — nothing of the least importance,"
he said. " I thought I would come up and spend
the morning with you instead of wasting it over my
book."

For one half-second Margery thought the miracle had
happened. But next moment she guessed : she had to
make this seem a tremendous surprise to her.

" Oh dear, has it stuck again," she asked, "as it did
last January ? I am sorry."

" Yes. I can't do any more," he said. " The reason
is that there is no more to do. It is finished."

Margery jumped up. Her astonishment was perfectly
rendered.

" Oh, Arnold, my darling !" she cried. " How splen-
did ! How perfectly splendid !"

He was really moved by her enthusiasm.

" And I bring you a little present, Margery," he said.
" I bring it all to you. I have just written the page
of dedication. Two words only — ' To Margery.' "

" Ah, I love that," she said, " because you are giving
me all — all you value most."

Suddenly she began to stammer.

" It is y-y-yourself you give me," she said. " It is
d-dear of you. I can't thank you. It would be s-silly
of me to try."

He smiled at her.

" Yes, I give you myself," he said. " And there
is more news yet. I see clearly what my next piece

342 JUGGERNAUT

of work will be. It grows out of what I have just
finished, naturally — inevitably."

Margery gave one glance round at the triumphant and
splendid noon, riotous with colour under the spring sun.

Then she came and sat close to him.

" Oh, Arnold, how wonderful !" she said. " Do tell
me!"

THE END

BILLING AND SONS LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD

BY THE SAME AUTHOR
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ACCOUNT RENDERED

Truth. — ' Mr. Benson is most successful in his masterly portrait.
World. — ' The story will be widely read, and deserves to be.'
Literary World.—' " Account Rendered " is a distinct success.'
Globe. — ' It is written with his customary skill and artistic
method. The novel should be read if only to make the acquaintance
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Daily News.—' The characters are real enough : they are well-
observed studies of ordinarily decent people seen through the
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SHEAVES

standard.— 'Brilliant, clever, full of wise observations and sage
counsels.'

Daily Chronicle.—' Packed with sympathy and sly satirical
touches.'

Westminster Gazette.— ' The charm of "Sheaves" lies in the
essential human nature of the men and women who move in it. . . .
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worry out their difficulties, laugh and weep with them.'

World. — ' He has done nothing that comes near to the excellence
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A REAPING

Evening Standard. — ' Some of the things in "A Reaping" are
exquisite — some are amusing.'

Bookman. — ' A book of quite unusual charm — a book that will
be enjoyed no less for its story than for its ripe philosophy, its
sparkling wit, and its humour. Mr. Benson has never done any-
thing lighter, brighter, cleverer, or more delightfully entertaining.'

Daily Telegraph. — ' A book full of warm human sentiment and
sensibility ; it contains many passages which touch the heart, and
it is just the sort of book which Mr. Benson's admirers will
thoroughly enjoy.'

Sunday Times.—' Another jolly book which has caught Mr. E. F
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THE HOUSE OF DEFENCE

Westminster Gazette. — ' It is so new a thing, and one so entirely
unexpected, to find the claims of Christian Science exposed with
any degree of intelligence in a novel, that one is inclined to be very
lenient to the writer who succeeds in this achievement. Mr. Benson,
therefore, deserves well of the reading public. It is also well that
a live lord and his kith and kin have been chosen as subjects of the
Christian Science propaganda, for of such is the kingdom of
Mrs. Eddy.'

THE ANGEL OF PAIN

Guardian. — ' We have learnt to expect from Mr, Benson an
admirably constructed story, brilliant character sketches, flashes
of good talk, light-hearted nonsense, and of late also a touch oi
weirdness, a study of things occult. In the "Angel of Pain" we
find all these things . . . but the conception of the whole is finer
and more human than that of any other work. Mr. Benson also
shows a strong and intimate feeling for nature ... a remarkably
clever book. '

AN ACT IN A BACKWATER

Westminster Gazette. — ' In some ways it is one of the best of
Mr. Benson's books, for it develops certain quiet characters with
considerable skill, and it is pleasantly and evenly written. It is
eminently pleasant and wholesome ; has many touches of nature
in it. '

THE PRINCESS SOPHIA

Westminster Gazette. — ' This book is a gay and spirited perform-
ance, and the Princess herself a clever picture. It is lively reading,
and the characters bubble along in true Bensonian fashion.'

Athenaeum. — 'There is brilliance, lightness of touch. The
dialogue is neat and brisk, and the miniature Court and its courtiers
are amusingly treated. '

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MAMMON & CO.

Daily Telegraph. — 'Mr. Benson has returned to the world of
" Dodo," to the follies and idiosyncrasies of a certain portion of the
" upper ten," to bright, witty dialogues, and gay, fascinating scenes.
"Mammon & Co." is bright, piquant, and entertaining from be-
ginning to end ; full of humorous sayings and witty things spoken
by men and women who are merry and captivating.'

Spectator. — ' Hooleyism is not the only target of Mr. Benson's
satire. He also deals with the fashionable craze for gambling in
private houses and with dangerous flirtations, and the book is at
once far truer to life and far better calculated to open people's eyes
to their follies than Ouida's highly-coloured impeachment of
London society in " The Masserenes." It is a clever and interesting
novel.'

THE RELENTLESS CITY

Manchester Guardian. — 'Mr. E. F. Benson is an excessively
competent novelist. Even his first attempt was an accomplished
piece of work, and, as he always writes well within himself, he always
gives a pleasing sense of finish. He knows his world well, and
speaks out of the fulness of his knowledge. All this is as true of
" The Relentless City " as of his other novels, and it is a great deal
to be able to say so much of an author who produces so rapidly and
whose vogue might easily tempt him to hurry. '

Queen. — ' " The Relentless City " is characteristic of the author.
It is amusing rather than interesting. ... It is full of brilliant
epigrams and pictures of smart society life both in America and
England.'

Illustrated London News. — ' Abundance of keen observation,
of wit, and pungent satire. There is a very excellent story ; there
are epigrams and topical allusions, and a knack of vivid description
of contemporary things; Mr. Benson, in short, spreads a liberal
feast before the novel reader. '

THE LUCK OF THE VAILS

Times. — 'One might begin to read "The Luck of the Vails"
lying back in a comfortable chair, and chuckling over the natural
talk of Mr. Benson's pleasant people. But after an hour or so,
assuming that it is a hot day, and that you turn the leaves without
great energy, you find yourself sitting up and gripping the arms of
the chair, and glancing uneasily over your shoulder at the sound of
a step upon the gravel. For this is a really thrilling and exciting
tale of crime and mystery that Mr. Benson has written. It is read-
able all through, and full of entertainment.'

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SCARLET AND HYSSOP

Standard.— 'It is astonishingly up to date ; it brims over with
chatter, with Saturday-to-Monday parties, with Bridge— everlasting
Bridge— flirtation, motor-cars, semi-detached husbands and wives,
and the Boer War ; in fact, with everything in which London
society of to-day interests itself. An admirable and, perhaps, faith-
ful picture, witty, cynical, and amusing. It is full of brilliant things.'

Pall Mall Gazette. — 'Scathing in satire and relentless in expo-
sure. In point of construction, " Scarlet and Hyssop " seems to us
to mark a distinct advance in the author's work. Nothing is out of
place, nothing superfluous, but all is in due order and sequence,
while' the interest never flags for a moment. There are many pages
of witty dialogue, and quite enough clever people who talk epigrams,
and, on the whole, " Scarlet and Hyssop" must be accounted a
really brilliant piece of work, unsurpassed by anything Mr. Benson
has given us.'

THE BOOK OF MONTHS

Daily Chronicle.— 'It is full of charm— real, persuasive, pene-
trating charm— the charm of a wayward, irresponsible, winning
personality. There is sentiment, and sometimes sentimentality ;
but there is an underlying manhness, which renders even the most
sentimental reflections strong and unaffected. The book is, above
all things, sympathetic. Many notes are sounded, and in all of
them there rings the sincerity of real feeling and purpose. . . . But
we spoil the book by quotation. It is better to recommend it un-
reservedly to all sorts and conditions of readers.'

Two Shillings and Sixpence

THE BLOTTING BOOK

Daily Telegraph. — ' There is more genuine workmanship in this
slight detective story than in half the toilsome novels of the day,
and everyone who can appreciate neat, effective, and finished
artistry will enjoy to the full this clever and admirably constructed
story. The story is ' ' the real thing ' ' — life as it is, and crime as it
occurs. '

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THE CLIMBER

Outlook. — 'In his latest novel Mr. E. F. Benson shows himself
in a graver and sterner mood than is habitual with him. "The
Climber" is a merciless and very clever vivisection of an utterly
unscrupulous and self-centred nature.'

Spectator. — ' The heroine may be likened to the immortal figure
of Becky Sharp. It must be acknowledged that Mr. Benson's study
is eminently successful.'

World. — ' In all the people whom he introduces he interests us,
and his story is written with striking effect. It contains many
passages one would like to quote, there are some fine descriptions
in it, and those little Bensonian touches which reveal the author's
wonderful power of observation are to be found ou almost every
page. '

PAUL

Outlook. — ' The lighter side of the story is characteristic of
Mr. Benson at his best and gayest. Nothing could be more natural
or more amusing than most of the dialogue, and a whole handful of
the subsidiary figures ; it is full of admirable portraiture and an
abundance both of humour and of humanity.'

THE LMAGE IN THE SAND

Bookman. — ' Even the sceptic must admit the grim power of the
book. Mr. Benson is steeped in his subject, and he has evidently
studied Egyptian magic to some purpose. He writes of amulets
and charms with the familiarity of the expert.'

THE CHALLONERS

Pall Mall Gazette. — ' A vivid and amusing book — full of sugges-
tion, and permeated throughout with a generous philosophy of life.'

London : WM. HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford Street, W.C.

DATE DUE

CAYLORD

PRINTED INU S.A.

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